Long, restless night makes good story (10/26/05)

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done for a story?” someone asked.

Easy.

That would have been back in about 1978 or ’79 roughly at this time of year.

It all started about a year earlier. We were scheduled to put out a tabloid supplement with an autumnal theme, and I was coming up blank on ideas. Roaming some back roads, I came across a classic “haunted house,” an abandoned farmhouse that had just the right amount of spookiness. (It was the sort of place that appeals to kids who should know better late at night in October.)

Armed with a camera, I roamed around and through the house, shooting black and white photos. As I shot, a story began to take shape in my imagination.

Back at the office, I pounded out a short ghost story to go with the photos.

It made a nice package, I met my deadline, and I forgot about it.

That is until about a week passed when I got an anonymous note claiming to be from one of the characters in the story.

Obviously, I’d touched a nerve with someone. A few more notes followed before I figured out the source, an elderly farmer by the name of Ed Eischen. We’d crossed paths before and had formed a casual friendship.

(He once talked me into judging a chicken flying contest in New Corydon, but that’s a topic for another column.)

Ed owned the old farmhouse, and after he fessed up as the source of the notes he challenged me to a wager. He’d buy me dinner, he said, if I spent the night in that old farmhouse. And not just anywhere in the house, he said, it had to be the attic.

By now, you’ve figured out why this is the answer to the question about the craziest thing I’ve ever done for a story.

I took him up on the bet.

So it was that late one Sunday afternoon in October, a year after the original ghost story had been published, I set off for Ed’s “haunted house.” I stopped at his place first to make sure he was aware I’d be there. He immediately unloaded more spooky tales about the abandoned house, some of which actually turn out to have been true.

Later he told me that he also planned to scare me in the middle of the night but had fallen asleep and missed his opportunity.

The old house had been used for grain storage, meaning that I had to walk through soybeans to get to the attic stairs.

With a sleeping bag, a paperback book, and a camera, I climbed up and did my best to settle in.

Needless to say, it was a long — anything but restful — night.

No ghosts were sighted, which was fine with me. I was even happier that none of the varmints I could hear moving through the soybeans ventured up the stairs to tuck me in.

When dawn broke, I skedaddled back home, weary and a little grungy but oddly proud of myself for taking Ed up on his wager.

My only regret is that we never got around to having that dinner together.[[In-content Ad]]