So a dozen people arrived at the farmhouse. We'd drink red wine and watch the mediums flit around, lapsing into trances, channeling spirits, doing their automatic writing, levitating tables, while we laughed politely behind our hands. I planned to invite another group of stupid, ordinary friends who aren't troubled with any special extrasensory gifts. 'My ghost is too loud.' 'I hate being able to see the future.'ДЇor my little house party, I planned to invite Brenda and her psychic friends out to the haunted farmhouse. Just stay away from automobiles for the next six years.'Д«renda and Patrick, they're odd but they're my friends, always hungry for attention. When you persist, she'll take your hand in hers and beg you, 'Please, please. nothing, really.' Then close her eyes and try to shake the terrible vision from her mind. When you ask what's wrong, she'll say, 'Oh. Over dinner, she'll ruin your best story by suddenly drawing a huge gasp, covering her mouth with her hand, and rearing back in her chair with a look of wide-eyed terror on her face. Another friend - I'll call her Brenda - says she can see the future. This man, he's not my only deluded friend. I promised to water the plants, and he went off and left me there for two weeks. I needed the isolation and quiet to write, I told him. To prove this, I asked him to let me house-sit his farm while he was away on vacation. Until he moved out to this farm, Patrick was like me: stable, practical, reasonable. This is a practical man who's never believed in ghosts. My friend refers to his ghost as 'the Lady,' and he complains about not getting any sleep because the Lady was up all night, rattling pictures on the walls and resetting the clocks and thumping around the living room. It's the psychic equivalent of saying, 'My diamond ring is so very heavy.' Or, 'I wish I could wear this thong bikini without everyone lusting after me.' It's all very dramatic, but it's the kind of complaint that smells like a boast. I'm going down with my gun, and if I don't call you back in five minutes, send the police!' It's a nice, white farmhouse in the country, surrounded with gardens, and every few weeks he'll call in the middle of the night to say, 'Someone is screaming in the basement. But his murdered father had other ideas.ДЄ friend of mine lives in a 'haunted' house. When novelist Chuck Palahniuk invited friends to a haunted-house party, he was more prepared to snicker than hide behind the sofa. Originally published in The London Independent В© 2002 Chuck Palahniuk: The Ghost Who Came to Say He Was Sorry

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