A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven by Corey Taylor Page B

else’s house. I would walk up the driveway each morning, hung over and miserable, but I would always wave and say hello to the groundskeeper, who would smile and shake his head at my appearance from the street.
    Yes, I got up to some smarmy shit in that era. I did indeed have several cab company phone numbers programmed in my phone just in case one of my friends refused to take me out drinking. I did engage in some crazy belligerent escapades with certain people who lived or squatted in Los Angeles and its surrounding boroughs, suburbs, and hamlets. I did make a fool of myself at parties and the Rainbow Bar and Grill on a regular basis. I did have a drunken conversation with Ron Jeremy at a porn star’s birthday party for twenty minutes before I realized he was getting a blowjob the whole time. But that is not the type of book I want to write for you today. I mention these things in passing right now so I can satisfy your tiny craving for the outlandishly scintillating; now we can get back to the task at hand, and I can tell you about my other experiences in that swarthy expanse. So there was your cookie. Good to go? Moving on.
    My paranormal experience with the Mansion started the way most crazy things do: with a dare.
    Some of the guys and I were exploring—getting the lay of the land and checking out the place. We were running up and down the trails in the back and scampering across the bridge on the side of the house. We ran up and down and back up the stairs, looking on every floor and leaning into every room. No one had chosen their respective bedrooms yet because the majority of the band had not arrived. So we had the run of this decadent fucking keep—the house is the size of a museum. If I can be allowed to gush a bit, the place is fantastic. I was in love with it from day one. We were acting like kids, and I was having a ball until we made our way into the basement.
    I know there are not many basements in California, but I believe this one was at one time a wine cellar. There was a bedroom (of sorts—it had a bed and a lamp against a brick wall), and there was also an odd room just to the left with a strange door that slid to the side. I opened it and darkness answered. There was just absolutely no light inside—no bulb or window or anything. And even though the house’s air conditioning had not been turned on yet and we were all sweating to death, this room was ice cold. Someone blurted out, “Get in there—I dare you!” So I did. I walked to the middle of the room and smiled as they closed the door. This is nothing, I thought to myself.
    Then something walked right through me.
    Seeing as I was in complete ebon blackness, I felt it but did not see it happen. This, however, made it infinitely worse. One minute nothing was happening, the next I was pushed backward with the violation. The only way I can describe this sensation is that it was like being possessed by the winds of Antarctica. No, that really does not cut it either. It was like someone made of ice tried to hold me. I cried out a little in the dark, and from behind the door I heard the guys laugh. I scrambled for the door handle, threw it open, and fled upstairs. Everybody was taken aback. “What happened?” they asked. I would not answer. I just walked around for a while, trying to beat some warmth into my limbs and not really accomplishing anything.
    Unfortunately for the boys and me, this was only the beginning.
    Gear and amps alike malfunctioned. A whole session was lost because a strange loop started playing in the headphones that would only go away when we finally shut down the whole goddamn mixing board and recording unit. Things would disappear and reappear in other rooms, rooms that were clear on the other side of the house. Everyone would tell me their stories, but only when no one else was around. They had no idea it was happening to everybody. People staying in the renovated garage under the house would wake up to someone screaming