Pollock’s Ghost

It appears that growing up is directly responsible for the loss of magic & wonder in my life.  The possibility of ghosts, however, still excites me.  When someone mentions a haunting, I light up like a child.  This was the case my junior year of college.  It was around Halloween and my friend Brian Pollock said all the right things: haunted cemetery, five minutes from his house and an uncle who could get us permission to investigate the area.  We packed up for a weekend, invited a couple of friends and headed upstate to Troy, New York where a weekend intended for investigation ended in a staged haunting at the expense of Brian Pollock’s sanity.

“My uncle is the town supervisor and can get us in” was what he sold me on.  Pinewoods Cemetery, which is also know as Forest Park Cemetery, is ranked within the top most haunted cemeteries in the country.  Since who-knows-when, the cemetery was closed off because of intense foot-traffic that came from being nationally ranked as a hot-spot for paranormal activity.  Ghost hunters and spiritualists from around the world were coming to Troy in hopes of capturing a bit of life’s magic, but the hooligans who were breaking gravestones ruined it for everyone.  So Pinewoods was closed off with your stereotypical ‘No Trespassing’ signs and a diligent police-force combing the perimeter.

It took us two and a half hours to get from the Fordham section of the Bronx (where we went to school) to Troy.  Dave Repking and his girlfriend Jill accompanied us on our adventure.  For Pollock and I, this was old hat.  We’d spent our first year of knowing each other swapping ghost stories and sneaking into Fordham’s underground tunnel system, not to mention exposing an on-campus haunting that our university swept under the rug.  Upon pulling up to Pollock’s house, I couldn’t help but notice how eerie it was.  The barn alongside the house looked ancient and the house itself could have passed as haunted from a distance.  “Is it possible your house is haunted?” I asked Brian.  “Yes.  We’ve always thought that.”

Our plan: Stay in the first night to talk about Pinewood’s legendary hauntings, show up Saturday morning to feel-out the situation and call Pollock’s uncle Saturday night to get permission to conduct our investigation.  I don’t remember a single story about Pinewood’s Cemetery told that first night because everything fell through.  That Saturday morning, we made our way to the cemetery to scope it out.  After a preliminary lap around the perimeter, we submerged into the depths of Pinewood Cemetery… when someone began walking towards us.

Initially we thought it was a cop, but as he approached, it became quite apparent he was a Satanist.  “Hey guys… I guess we’re early for the rally.”  He made the 10 mile walk to write satanic rap lyrics, give himself a tattoo and be early for the annual pagan gathering.  That was it for Pollock.  Taking our safety into consideration, along with a strong fear of a satanist gathering that could lead to human sacrifice, the expedition was called off.  Pollock was no longer calling his uncle nor were we ever coming back to Pinewoods Cemetery.  Instead, we settled for a haunted hayride followed by night two of wine and poker.

I wanted to see the Satan Rally; more importantly, I wanted to see a ghost with Pollock.  It’s why I ghost hunt with friends:  In the case I see something, someone is there to validate the sighting as true or just an hallucination.  Pollock was being cautious, but I was being a baby.  Instead of falling in line, I decided to bust his balls all night, which is one of my not-so-desirable qualities.  Brian wasn’t giving in.  After a lame haunted hayride and a few bottles of wine, I decided that playing poker was over and wanted to give Pollock the haunting he couldn’t give me.  “I’ll be back,” I said as I left the group to stage a haunting that worked out far better than intended.

I’m a Jedi in strange houses.  For some reason, I always open the right drawer without needing direction.  The Pollock’s junk drawer in their kitchen had fishing wire and a lighter.  On the second floor, they had games and toys spread out next to their staircase.  There was a Quiji Board and a porcelain doll.  I made my way downstairs to a small room that had candles, an area rug and a lamp.  I put a candle in my pocket.  With some fishing wire, I loosely tied a seemingly invisible line to the base of the lamp and ran it alongside the table, under the rug and had it stick out so I could reach for it without being noticed.  With the Quji Board in hand, I made my way back to poker.

The idea went over well.  I took Pollock up on his earlier claim that his house could be haunted and he was more than enthusiastic to play Quiji.  Dave and Jill followed us into the room where my string was secretly waiting to be pulled.  We sat down and what began as a joke turned into something special.  You see, Quji never works unless the asshole of the group makes it work.  We called on spirits and asked for names.  After getting ignored by the wonderful world of ghosts who wait in-line for a face-to-face with Whoopi Goldberg, I decided to intervene.  If I pulled it lightly, the lamp was supposed to move just enough to draw everyone’s attention and the string would come untied without being seen.  So I pulled.  And the lamp began to move.  To Pollock’s amazement, his lamp was moving, but to my disappointment, the string remained tied.  Before he could get up to see what was actually pulling the lamp, I gave it a tug… and the lamp flew right off the table as if it were thrown.

Luckily the string came untied, but as I was reeling it back, Dave caught on.  With a subtle smile, Dave silently agreed to play along.  Once the string was completely under the rug, I got up to appear intrigued alongside Dave.  The look on Pollock’s face as he turned on the ceiling light to cautiously investigate the lamp was priceless.  There was silence as Pollock held the lamp in his seemingly shaky hands.  He looked at me to see if I had something to do with this but I shrugged my shoulders.  He put the lamp down and asked if I could put the Quji Board back upstairs.  His face was a lighter shade of white; he was genuinely frightened.

At the top of the landing, I placed the Quji Board back and took out the porcelain doll.  It’s head was heavy and I used this to my advantage.  I tied a noose made of fishing wire around its neck and secured the doll in the sitting position on the top step.  Then I placed the candle under the fishing wire (which was tied to the railing), lit it with the lighter I found in the junk drawer and made my way back downstairs.  My plan was for the string to pop followed by the doll falling headfirst down the stairs long after I left the second floor.  I made my way back to scene of the crime where Pollock was still pondering the chances that a lamp could throw itself off a table during a seance.  The staircase happened to start in the same room we had occupied and I waited patiently for my doll to make it’s presence known.

I was hoping for a clean slide down the steps.  You can’t expect too much with such little preparation time.  What I got was far greater than I bargained for.  First, there was a single thud.  All eyes were drawn to the staircase.  After a brief pause, the thud turned into steps.  My doll rolled down the stairs in such a way that sounded like footsteps.  It reached the end of the line, and on the final step, it slowly tipped over and fell onto the seating position as if it were a slinky.  My string wasn’t all that apparent, but to be sure, I was the first one to grab the doll and privately remove the noose.  Pollock lost it.  He grabbed the doll, ran upstairs, threw it in the pile of toys (where the candle was but somehow blew out before he made his way up) and started packing his stuff.  “Everyone pack your shit,” he called from upstairs.

Dave, Jill and I spent the next half hour consoling Brian in the TV room.  With his head between his knees, Pollock was starting to say crazy things.  “We need to go now; I promise you guys this… I’ll never come back here again.”  I thought of keeping this farce alive, but it was apparent that letting him know would save our trip along with Pollock’s sanity.  To be honest, I’ve never fooled anyone that well before and I was afraid upon hearing the news, he’d attack me.  “It’s bullshit Pollock,” as I pulled out the lighter and fishing wire.  His skin immediately flushed back to life and he started laughing.  After a quick tour through his haunted house, Pollock was not only relieved but appreciative that I went to such lengths to trick him on his own turf.  I believe that the rest of the trip was especially enjoyable for Pollock because there’s nothing like appreciating sanity after believing you’ve lost it.