The catwalk itself is cluttered with
boxes, furniture, and the like, all of it
stacked on both sides. Sandwiched
between two sets of packing crates,
it’s claustrophobic as all hell up there.
Just a few inches above my head, I can
hear the rain drumming incessantly on
the roof, beating out a staccato tattoo.
Under any other circumstances, I
might find that reassuring...but not
here. My hackles are up. Gacy is
said to lurk up here on the catwalk,
watching the events that transpire
down below. It is, the psychics claim,
one of his favorite hiding places.
Thunder rumbles, and suddenly,
I’m nine years old again, watching a
Hammer horror movie from behind my
grandparents’ couch. This was the sort
of dark and stormy night those movies
always seemed to take place on. I
shudder. My sweat-stained clothes are
sticking to my body in places, mostly
because of the heat and the Illinois
summer humidity — or so I tell myself.
In reality, I’m more than a little on
edge. I imagine that I can sense eyes
on me, somewhere out there in the
darkness. Of course, that was purely
psychological, my mind playing tricks
on me...right?
Brad stops talking, pausing to draw
breath. A creak, from somewhere
off to my right. I turn toward it, my
imagination conjuring up images
of a phantom clown, watching me
silently from the inky blackness of the
far catwalk. Leering, he takes a step
toward me, and I tell myself firmly to
GET A GRIP, YOU’RE A 45-YEAR-OLD
GROWN MAN, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE.The creak is almost certainly another
symptom of the building settling down
after a long, hot day, its structure
contracting and making a series of
tiny little noises like that. Still, it had
sounded awfully close...More thunder rolls. It sounds closer
this time. This is all starting to seem
more than a little surreal. Just how
had I managed to end up all alone on
a catwalk in a movie theater that was
said to be haunted — no joke — by
the spirit of one of America’s most
notorious serial killers?Read on.Chances are that if you’re a regular
reader of Haunted Magazine, you’re
familiar with the notion that there are
basically three broad categories of
haunting: haunted places, haunted
objects, and haunted people. There’s
a lot of merit to this argument, but I
would also point out that few cases are
so clear-cut that they would fit neatly
into just one of those categories.One such case reached me through
my friends, the rowdy Texas-based
ghost hunters Brad and Barry Klinge
(TV’s Ghost Lab). We’re neighbors at
a paranormal convention one day,
signing books and idly discussing
our recent cases. I’d just finished the
final edits on my book about the I-70
Strangler and his haunted home, Fox
Hollow Farm.