by Corey Taylor
Clown told me one that fucks with me to this day. Apparently he had gotten up one night to use the bathroom. As he was walking by my bed, he swore there was someone in the bed with me, squirming and moving around. When he switched the light on in the bathroom, he looked back and I was the only one there. No doubt you can see how this particular story made my blood curdle a bit. Meanwhile, more and more belongings were being flung about, and the screaming continued. A certain attic was exquisitely horrifying, emanating the sounds of a loud, violent murder for a full night. People started having serious talks about leaving, or at least swapping rooms.
The shenanigans in the Clown/Taylor wing kept on getting weirder and more irritating. Shit kept flying off of my roommate’s dresser, no matter how many times he picked it up. One afternoon we were at the old music shop on La Cienega, Black Market Music (sadly no longer with us). We were looking for acoustic guitars; what we found were stacks of the same black-and-white photo of Robert F. Kennedy. So of course, because we are a clutch of quirks, we bought them all and displayed them in our rooms. But it was obvious from day one of this purchase that the “original” inhabitants of 2451 were not fans of RFK (bastard Republican haunts) and kept knocking them off of everything—walls, tables, whatever was being utilized.
I should explain that when we moved into the Mansion, there was no furniture or anything in the place. For Clown and me, we received two beds, two chests of drawers, two end tables, and two digital alarm clocks. Knowing Clown’s love (read: pure white-hot hatred) for clocks in general, his remained on top of my bureau; mine was put on an end table, but I never bothered to set either of them, seeing as I got my time off of my nifty Nextel cell phone. The clocks were both wrong the entire time I was there; I never even thought about setting the alarms. So you can imagine my dismay when one night, at around 3:30 in the morning, both the alarms went off—at the same time, even though they were not synced up. Trust me—at that ungodly hour, I checked. There was no alarm, and there was no way they could have been on the same page, so to speak.
As I said before, the thermostat was in my room. This thermostat not only controlled the temperature in my room and Clown’s little nook, but it also handled the temp for the entire second floor and subsequent wings on our side of the manse. Every morning I would put that thing on 70 degrees Fahrenheit. In sunny Los Angeles that is an acceptable and understandable setting; it could get hot as hell outside. I set it there so coming into the house felt nice and comfortable. Every morning I put it on 70, and within an hour the fucker would be on 85. Now I would still be in the room—no one was fucking touching it. But I would be working on lyrics, and suddenly I am making my own gravy, swimming in juices I never knew I had. I would jump out of bed—well, lazily slink out of bed, let’s be fair—and run to the dial. There it was: 85 fucking degrees. No windows were open, and no doors were letting the cool air escape. The goddamned thing was being turned up, and nobody was around. This happened all the time, and it was driving me insane.
One night I was hanging out with friends in my room. Clown was off somewhere taking pictures or playing snare drums, so we had the place to ourselves. We were cracking each other up and taking pictures of each other doing goofy shit like sticking our guts out with our shirts pulled up and flexing like idiots, mugging for the camera with undisguised glee. I had the camera, and I was shooting around at other people when I noticed it was hot as fuck again. Jesus, what the hell? I got up off the bed, and sure enough, the bastard was locked in at 85 degrees. I had an uneasy notion, so for gits and shiggles, I went back through the photos I had been snapping, and one shot made me freeze and stare for a very long time. There, right next to my buddy being an idiot, were three orbs, swirling around and right on top of the thermostat. I still have the photo to this day. I shit you not. I showed everyone else in the room, and suddenly we felt the need to hang out somewhere else.
Another night I was sleeping soundly, dreaming about vampires or guns or whatever, when I woke up to music. Now you may be saying to yourself, “Of course you heard music, fuck hole—you were living in a recording studio.” But the music I heard was not our music—hell, it was not even remotely close to Slipknot music. It was like old ballroom music, the kind you would hear at a dancehall or speakeasy in the twenties. It had a jaunty bounce to it, but it was lilting and hypnotic. And for some reason it was coming from my closet. I had a drowsy little moment when I was convinced someone had put a radio in there to fuck with me. Another crazy idea was that Sid (who essentially was holed up directly below my room) was doing some kind of soundtrack work for a period piece. Either way, I climbed slowly out of bed, opened the door . . . and it stopped dead. One minute there was a party going on, and the next there was cold, hard silence. I took a look around for a radio, but there was nothing there. The closet did not even have electrical outlets in it. I tried not to freak out, thinking I would get to the bottom of it in the morning. But when I got up the next day I found out there were only three people in the mansion that night. Then Sid hit me with a little chilling knowledge: “Nah, man. I was not playing music. I thought it was you. What the hell was that?” I left it at that and went back to eating M&Ms.
Let me tell you something really quick here: my time at the Mansion was not all spooks and specters. We had some really good times in that place, even if it was a little out of fucking control from time to time. There was one night when we threw a barbecue, and everybody and their mom showed up for it. It was so awesome that word spread down the Sunset Strip that “SLIPKNOT IS HAVING A FUCKING PARTY!” I remember standing on the veranda with an acoustic guitar. On one side was Sebastian Bach, singing madly and throwing monstrous high-fives at anyone within reach. On the other was B-Real from Cyprus Hill, who would not let me coax him into a stripped down rendition of “Insane in the Brain,” no matter what I offered him. Behind me was a group of midge—er, dwarf—um, little people called Mini Kiss. And yes—they were in full Kiss makeup and costume.
This was the same night a certain actor who I will only refer to as Beak tried to get me to do crystal meth off a toilet on the second floor. I kindly refused. The night ended with me naked out on the patio, singing “Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” by Boys II Men with four dudes I had never met before and have not seen since. Thankfully there is no video of this event, nor were they upset by my lack of pants. I woke up in my room (somehow), came downstairs to survey the damage, and nearly threw up when I realized I was the only one around who was going to clean the place. So I did: it took me nearly three fucking hours. Thanks, you prick cocksuckers.
I lived in the Mansion off and on for seven months. It had some incredible ups and unbelievable downs—remember, this was when I decided to give up my shitty whiskey-sodden lifestyle and get my shit together. But I look back with fondness on that time in my life. So mixed up in all the madness, there was the whisper of what was yet to come—and, better yet, what could be. I went through a serious life overhaul, and Slipknot got an amazing album out of the deal. On a humorous note, I broke my toe running up the main staircase one day, but not knowing I had broken it, I walked around on it for two and a half years before I finally had it x-rayed. It is still broken to this day; there is a pressure fracture on the main joint, making it swell up and turn red when I am on my feet for too long. The toenail filled with blood then died, causing it to grow irregularly. It is angry at all times, and it shakes when it senses evil. Yes, loyal readers and followers on Twitter . . . the Mansion was the place where Hugo the Angry Toe was born. He never sleeps. He never laughs. He just swells, hurts, and hates. I have learned over the years to never look Hugo in the eye. Those of you who follow me on various social networks have seen Hugo (I know I should apologize for posting pictures, but I do not give a rat’s hairy ass). You have had a flash of my pain. Feel sorry for me.
The year 2003 turned to 2004, and I was preparing to leave the Mansion. We were making arrangements to finish the album at Rick Rubin’s actual home, a place that is almost
creepier than the house this chapter is dedicated to. Another band was getting ready to take over 2451, and I was setting up shop in a hotel. For one month I finished my vocals next to a giant stuffed bison I named Smitty in the basement of the Rubin residence. One night Trent Reznor showed up to hang out and see how things were going. Now, I am a massive Nine Inch Nails fan, so much so that when I heard Trent was there I could not even bring myself to go in the control room and meet him with everybody else. So while Joey, Paul, and our engineer, Greg Fidleman, sat chatting with him at the recording desk, I was out in the backyard that overlooked Sunset Boulevard pacing and chain smoking. From outside I heard the unmistakable strains of “The Blister Exists” being blasted from the studio’s reference monitors inside. They were playing music for Trent! I wanted to go in and see what he thought, but I could not do it. When I finally got up the courage and walked inside, Trent was suddenly gone and everyone in the room was smiling. “What?” I said. They all looked at each other and Greg said, “Trent was fucking blown away. He said he had to go home. We think it fucked him up a bit!” When I finally met Trent years later, I asked him about it, and he simply laughed and nodded his head. I was very proud.
It was finally time to say goodbye and god bless to the hulking construct on Laurel Canyon. I was going to miss it in my own weird way. I had spent many nights really fucked up in that house. I had then started the long process of getting my shit together halfway through my tenure there, swearing off drinking and devoting myself to being a better man all around. But before I moved out, there was one last happening that still gives me the chilly fucks to this day, ten years later. So do not say I did not warn you: proceed with caution, and a clean nappy.
My last night in my room I was alone because Clown had moved out and gone back to Iowa; he had finished his parts earlier and was spending time with his family before the tour fired up. When I looked at his side of our wing, it made me sad to see nothing over there—none of his posters, none of his . . . tobacco pipes, nothing but his rental furniture and a crude set of drapes to keep the California sun at bay. I could have used his balcony, but I never did—it still felt like his area, and I respected that, even though he was gone. I was almost done packing up the stuff I had accrued during my stay, like some posters, a broken acoustic guitar and a dock for my iPod so I could listen to music. My suitcases were stuffed to fits with all my clothes and toiletries. All I had to do was go to sleep, ship the stuff I would not take back home, and move into a hotel. In fact, that was the plan I fell asleep thinking about.
I am not sure what time it was when I saw the figure at the end of the bed.
I am quite sure it was between two and three in the morning, because the moonlight, which only shone in the window during those hours, was really bright for some reason. Then again, maybe this thing was creating this light. Either way, there was a pale blue-gray to the room, like that time in the morning when you know you should not be awake, but you have to pee, so you peep your eyes to slits and let your mind guide you toward the toilet like a telepath, praying to god you get there without stubbing your toes on the wall and also hoping you can keep yourself from pissing all over your feet. That was the color of the room. But there was also a dark shape right near my feet. As groggy as I was, I assumed it was one of the guys in the band, possibly looking for something or needing assistance. I was obviously in no mood to help with anything, so I closed my eyes again, if only for a split second.
That is when the covers were jerked violently off the bed and my already fairly chilly seminude frame. They were yanked so viciously that my body, which had hooked an arm around the top of the blankets and sheets in my slumber, was pulled up slightly from my waist to my chest. I rose up about half a foot and slammed back down. Well, needless to say, that fucking got my attention, and I shot awake with a start and a furious retort fully formed on my lips. Whoever was being a bleeding dick stain was going to face the full wrath of a delirious and vengeful Great Big Mouth.
There was nobody there. No one—not a fucking sausage. I was lying in my bed with no covers, angry and ready to fight air. I looked around the room; I even got out of bed and looked down the hallway. Most of the band had already gone home, so I am not sure who the hell I was looking for. My caveman brain was all fired up and wanted to scream at someone for waking me up and pissing me off. My logical brain could not get a handle on what had just happened. My body, meanwhile, was telling me to go back to sleep and we would be mad in the morning. So, being a man, that is just what I did. When I came to later and thought about the incident, I did what any man in my position would have done. I had a cup of coffee, got all my shit together, and got the fuck out of Dodge. I have not been back to the Mansion since.
In the years since, I have experienced more than my share of paranormal tomfoolery. As you will see later in this book, not only have I lived in places where not everything is what it seems, but I have actually consciously gone out of my way to find the things that go thump in the night. However, I regard those months spent in the Mansion as the most frightening and formative I have gone through since I was a child. It was invigorating and terrifying and absolutely out of fucking control at times. I not only ran the lanes on the edge faster than I had done since I was a teenager, but I had also been enveloped in a crazy world in which you were never sure if you were ever alone on any given night, whether the house was crammed full of people or not. These memories tantalize my taste for adventure from time to time, and I find myself looking back more frequently, even though it was the best of times and it was the worst of times, to paraphrase a man more savvy than myself. All I can tell you is that I am a different man from the one who moved into the Mansion back in the summer of 2003. That man may as well have died, his spirit roaming the halls and rooms of that house along with all the other beings who call 2451 Laurel Canyon a home away from home. That phase of my life was darkly appealing, but it served its purpose. So commingling with those shades of ghostly gray are all the things in life I let go of so I could be the man I am today. If there was such a thing as a baptism by Hell House, that wing of my memory palace is where it would be displayed. I know when I fall asleep tonight I will go back there because I have been typing about it and thinking about it. I am unafraid now. There is nothing that place can take from me ever again.
I work in Los Angeles all the time now, so it is nothing for me and my wife to go flying up around the crazy curves on Laurel Canyon on our way to the Burbank Airport or Travis Barker’s studio or rehearsals for Camp Freddy or a plethora of other assignments I find myself embedded in on any given Sunday in the Sunshine State. Whether it is a charity event hosted by Henry Rollins or a private party sponsored by the people who make Rock Star video games, California is officially where I have crossed off several bucket list entries. From working with Dave Grohl to Halestorm, it all happens on the West Coast. I have definitely made peace with a lot of the demons in my life, some of which have permanent mailing addresses in that neck of the woods. But some habits will never change.
Every once in a while I find myself with some down time and an attitude. So you know what I do? I find Sunset Boulevard and turn up Laurel Canyon, heading toward the valley. I speed past Mt. Olympus (sort of). I twist and tweak around corners only a mentalist would love, ignoring the neighborhoods where all the rockers lived when they were busy reinventing rock and roll and swiftly making my way toward the general store on the corner where the groupies used to go beg for superstar penis. I floor it through the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Lookout Mountain until I see the familiar obscured corner with the trees and the fence and the entryway that never gets used. I slow down for about half a block, spit out the window, and extend my favorite filthy bit of single-fingered sign language. Quick: watch what I do from the right side of the car to the cottage on the left.
You just saw me flip the bird at a haunted house.
One Night in Farrar
THE NEXT SERIES OF PAGES are no shit, holy fuck, by the bo
ok, documented and completely bloody true. This is the result of hours spent on the job and in the thick of it, running around in the dark and nearly pissing myself. If you feel like you cannot get behind that, well tough titty fat. Besides, I have the tapes to prove it. So suck it . . . or at least throw a little powder on it. Better get a pot of coffee, because we are officially about to get weird.
For some of the chapters held within, my intention was to go out on some bona fide ghost hunts, recording and writing what I saw and experienced (no matter what that was) so I could have some fresh material. I have been exposed to several paranormal phenomena, even in my own home, but I wanted to spread the love. I wanted new haunts. I wanted to wander around abandoned buildings and houses like I did when I was ten years old. I love being scared, even if I know perfectly well that there is no reason to be scared. The sensation is overwhelming; it is the closest to coming unhinged as I allow. So when I feel it, I revel in it as much as inhumanly possible. It was time to get out of my own head and into the night.
Nothing gets the blood going like pure adventure. Every step you take out of your comfort zone gets you closer to the action of life. Too many people lean into their armchairs and watch from the cheap seats when they could be charging in, getting among it, doing the deeds that get you headlines and legendary status. There is a time and a place for complacency; there is also a time when you get your ass out of that divot in the sofa and treat life more like an amusement park than a parking lot. Nothing kills the spirit of action and excitement more than the need to take a nap after Thanksgiving dinner. Then again, if you pile on too much turkey, you miss the big game anyway. Sometimes the only way to pick up the pace is to pace yourself so you have enough energy for the home stretch. Let those show-offs run ahead and waste their energy. Stamina will always beat arrogance in the end.
