Dead Man's Hand

It was right about this time 4 years ago when last I saw you, kid. We sure gave your midway hell that night.

Under a Halloween full moon - the last for a long time, we were all so goddamn great.

I'm still at it, just like you said I would be. Took me a while to get back to myself, but I think I'm finally back. You'd have been proud this year. Gonna see some of your last works tomorrow when I visit Carnage for the first time.

Had one hell of a good season. Made sure that I closed each night with people that mattered, and made sure to take your advice.

A major step in setting things right. Keeping promises to ghosts.

That's us! We're the Roaming Spooks!!!

"One of the last things grandma talked to me about was when I started storm chasing. In the days after she and mom feuded and before the dementia took hold, she and I saw a lot of each other. I stopped over twice a week on average and we'd talk for hours.

I wrote this a year or so before grandma asked me if I was ever afraid when I was chasing storms. It seems very fitting that I read it again today:

When you die, the energy in your body escapes as heat loss. Now, unless you're dying somewhere like space, that heat will dissipate and become part of our atmosphere. Our atmosphere is very good at taking heat and doing interesting things with it, like condensing into storms. Some of the heat will cause rain to fall. Some of the heat will turn to static electrical energy and split the sky as lightning. As hot air rises and colder (less heated, technically) air rushes in to take its place, the resultant wind will push the storm along. Sometimes that convective action produces what we know as tornados.

The Union soldier Sullivan Ballou once mused about his death in a letter to his wife Sarah, "if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again." He died a few days after writing the letter at the first Battle of Bull Run.

Sullivan Ballou was right. All the tales of a fanciful afterlife are right -- from a certain point of view (thanks Obi-Wan). Consciousness is the product of a brain, and dies when the brain dies. But the energy powering it persists. As I described earlier, something in us is truly, inarguably, deathless.

Our energy literally comes from the stars and one day will return to the cosmos. Until then, we will occasionally light up the night as bolts of lightning. We will interact with our descendants long after even the memories of our life are lost to time.

"What do you do when you catch it? Isn't that scary?"

I greet each thunderhead as an old friend. I listen for the whispers of the dead upon the wind. I'm comforted in the night by the guiding flashes of what passes for heaven. And sometimes, if I'm very lucky, I see the unbridled fury of my ancestors.

One day, I will be that lightning, that rain, that terrible cloud that connects heaven and Earth by way of beautiful destruction.

So I am never afraid.

Grandma and I spoke of death often - death never frightened her. Luxury of faith, I suppose. She said she never wanted a funeral. All she ever wanted, in her own words, were just 'lay me next to Jack and my dad and carry on.'

So now I do that. I miss you."

And then I took a rose from the casket and walked to my car.

In the months since Grandma left, I've spotted one tornado in person, and have called almost a dozen warnings from radar. "Still at it," she'd say. Storms have even more meaning now. Right now, I'm on a ridge above Middletown, watching a storm pass to the south. Nothing major, but beautiful all the same.

July 13 1982 - December 23 2022

That's what the gravestone was going to read.

Ten hours trapped in my car with no heat or defrost, subzero temperature, almost 40mph winds. I passed out once, but the brim on my hat hit the steering wheel and knocked me awake again. That would have been it. Done. Gone. Carve those numbers and cry for a weekend.

Not this time, though. Turns out I'm not done yet. 24 hours or so of recovery. Probably the closest I've ever been to dead. Apparently every ten years in December I almost die - not exactly the best tradition.

I'm back on the road tonight. Same route. Not too different weather. Better equipped vehicle. A few hours till Christmas. Fitting, I guess.

Feels good, but pieces missing.

My full pay from the Hoorah, sent directly to Haunters Against Hate. I've given up the only haunt were I would have settled for the sake of principles.

Back to the road.

Here's to Steve.

Well, brother, we all came out to Castle Blood last night. I finally got there, just like you told me I should. I see now why you called it your real home. It was Halloween the way it is meant to be. Even after all this time, I'm still learning from you. You were right - I couldn't stop smiling.

We gathered afterwards at my hotel suite and ate Sheetz and played games. It wasn't until we were back there and sharing stories that I realized how close that was to the way things were that first weekend we haunted together. It was almost 3am before everyone left to go home. We're going for a lights on tour in a couple hours to try and catch all the other hidden references to you. I tried to finish this blog entry last night when it was fresh in my mind, but was prevented from doing so, so I slept on it.

This weekend helped a lot. It's the first Halloween weekend that I haven't haunted in a decade, but I spent it the way you always wished you could have - spent with friends, no expectations of working a haunt, just enjoying our favorite holiday like the guests we've been entertaining for years. Glad I finally took that advice too, even if that determination came late. Haunting... haunts us.

Spotted your nameplate on the mausoleum wall and your "copyright plate" in the laboratory scene. I expect Ricky will point out the rest of the references and memorials when we're going through later today. I only got choked up once last night during the show - I feel like that's an accomplishment on some level. No promises that number holds as steady today.

Finished up this blog entry right after I ordered at Dorido's. Thought you'd appreciate that. Wish you were across the table from me.

You are so missed, my friend. By so many more than just me. We're all still carrying that creative fire onward. Halloween will never die, so part of you still lives on as well. See you further on up the road, brother. Happy Halloween.

Anywhere the hate and bigotry of Ohio Valley Haunts is welcomed, I cannot coexist. I have too many people I care for in the LGBTQ+ community for me to ever compromise in such a way. There's no pledge I take more seriously than my promise to hold to the values of Haunters Against Hate, but more than that, how could I ever look my loved ones in the eye again if their existence was worth so little that it could be traded for a modicum of internet publicity?

Time

Don't let it slip away

Raise your drinkin' glass

Here's to yesterday

In time

We're all gonna trip away

Don't piss heaven off

We got hell to pay

Come full circle

sure I know you were with us, just not in the way so you could take more of your selfies with us all.

I tried to give you so many words over the years.

I guess these are my words for you.

Thank you to Tom for hosting us today,

Thank you to those friends he had at Fright Farm for welcoming the rest of his haunt family into your house.

And thank you to all his Real Life family for sharing him with us.

I am honored that people call me Steves mentor. But we would be remiss if we didnt mention another kid I mentored when I could, and who did the same for Steve, even before I got him.

His great friend and big brother in all this, Ethan Turon.

From his 1st day at 100 Acre Manor, till days before he left, Ethan was there for him.

Let’s start with a quote from an old black and white monster movie. One of the ones I forced Steve to watch for some horror roots and set design education.

The way you walked was thorny, through no fault of your own, but as the rain enters the soil, the river enters the sea, so tears run to a predestined end."

Maleva the Gypsy

1940 The Wolfman,

I think there’s been plenty of tears in the last 2 weeks. And no doubt we all have some more ready to go.

But with someone like Steve, every time I feel myself getting upset, it’s so easy to bring up a good memory, something cool, sweet, funny, or just dumb and goofy, to bring me back. I’m sure

you can too. If not now, you will..

Because he was easy to like, to love and to get close to.

In my case, I didn’t choose him. He chose me. I had no say in the matter. He was gonna be my friend and bring his brand of haunt magic to Castle Blood whether I liked it or not.

He was like a 10 month old golden retriever, How could I not get taken in by him, become close to him, and end up with such a bond

He was Romantic about Halloween. The love, the magic, the escapeism, the fantasy. I would warn him about that. Don’t love something that can’t really love you back. And he would then read back a list in his head of all my stories, and things I’ve done in the name of Halloween, and the consistency it brought to my life.

And I would reply with the loses, the hardships, divorces, bankruptcies, missed chances and lost loved ones. And he’d ask, then why is it almost 40 years and you keep going.

I would answer, How can I not, and I’d smile, how can I not be romantic about Halloween. It’s given me everything, just like it has you.

And he’d laugh at me and I’d tell, him the controller on that animation still wasn’t working. Shut up and what do you want for lunch.

He collected friends in the industry like other kids collect baseball cards.

He wanted the old ones. to learn from, understand the industry history, and the how and what and especially the why of things. I told him always look for WHY people do what they do.

And he wanted the new ones, to get energy from youth, to bond with fresh ideas and new materials and new ways to do things. He got that from so many of you.

And in his head he tried to figure out how it all made sense and blend it together into how he wanted to see things.

It’s why he could collect and discuss cute Halloween decorations from 20 years before he was born, with the same enthusiasm as a new formula for blood, or what the latest big ass prop was at a haunt convention and how he could chop the poor thing to pieces and make it move.

Its why he would work on the Castle in a style that is meant for all us weirdos to want to live there, and the next morning be at his real gig doing a room that makes people stop and say, NNNNope I’m not going in there.

Duality. It’s a tough one to deal with. Sometimes we just say, well HE was a textbook gemini wasn’t he.

But we’re here today because it went deeper than that.

I believe we only honor him if we realize that.

When you take your love of Halloween and decide to go pro, and especially when you find work in as many haunts as he did, it’s a very tough thing.

He worked in no less than 6 different haunts in the past 2.5 years. Not counting all the haunts he just sold props to.

When you do that, you pick the owner. And he was only once in a while wrong in that. But you don’t often get to pick your surroundings or even your co workers. For someone that needs safe and trusted friends, that’s hard.

He did make great friends everywhere he went, but not everyone is gonna like the new slick hired gun that just came onto their turf. You just cant please everyone.

That 10 month old golden retriever we spoke of earlier, didn’t understand that.

We make Halloween everyday, for MONEY. why would anything need to be bad?

I don’t know kid.

This world we live in, surrounded by spoopy all day everyday, is not for everyone, not even close.

We are all on our own island of misfit toys. Every haunt, anywhere in the country.

We would all do well to realize and remember that. We come to this interest, whether livelihood or hobby, trying to find joy and happiness by latching on to the dark side of life.

That’s probably messed up, but I am as 100% guilty of it as we all are.

Should we be careful of the wierdos? Mister, we ARE the weirdos.

Do you know what they call an everyday average well adjusted person in a haunt?

They call them a customer.

As we remember Steve, we should remember all the good times and tell his stories and show his pictures, and crazy videos.

And honor him by realizing the next kid that walks into our lives wanting it all, Loving Halloween, may need help too.

Now lastly , I know, Lastly, thank god, I’d like to read you part of this coming seasons opening speech at Castle Blood. We hope you’ll come see it. None of you have any other commitments in October, do you?

I wrote it a week before he left, but he was obviously already in great distress. As I wrote this I didn’t realize how he was already affecting me.

The tour had already been named Labyrinth, and he was already working on effects for it.

We’re all travelers of one sort or another in this world.

Often wondering about the path we’ve chosen, the obstacles we find, the private battles we face, and what inside, drives us to continue.

We all make it to the other side one way or another.

It’s what happens along the way that matters.

We are all travelers.

And remember, we all get lost sometimes,

So there ya go. I miss you"

You deserved more things than this world gave you, and didn't deserve what it did. I will miss you, my friend.

If they ever tell my story, let them say that I walked with giants. Men rise and fall like the winter wheat, but these names will never die. Let them say I lived in the time of Steve Guild.

"His chains are at rest, Or maybe at wait

Time keeps on counting, Still measuring fate

There they hanged him, Chopped him and burned

Through Dead Man's Hand, James always returned.

Crusaded through time, Curing that was hexed

If no peace in this life, Maybe thus in the next.

They buried him there, Under that tree.

Time and folk since forgotten, All those except me.

We tell campfire stories, Of a debt unpaid

The children pass by, And still they're afraid

Misunderstood wretch, One reason he'd give

It wasn't rage, But love cursed him to live

They say he is sleeping, his mind lost in time

Seeing that dawn, When out he will climb.

Until then he lies buried, And enemies dread.

So until the time promised, He lies, dreaming but dead."

~ Poem written in a diary found in the aftermath of the Hartford Circus Fire, author unknown

A gift left on a grey day. Don't know how long the solar light in the topper will last in the elements, but I hope it dissuades further vandalism in the cemetery. Tied a bandana to the base as a signature.