Steven A LaChance - The Uninvited: The True Story of the Union Screaming House

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Thank you to all of you for standing by me through the darkest of days and the most horrific of hours:

My three children

My mom and dad

My brothers, their wives

My sister, whom I miss daily

Denice Jones, my paranormal sister

John Zaffis, my guide

Dr. Jimmy Lowery

Carmen Reed, fellow survivor

Theresa and Mike Reavey

Tim Yancey

Tim Clifton

Karen Stratman

Keith Age

The Booth brothers

Father Mark

Betsy Belanger

Cari Stone

The Ghostly Talk guys, Scott and Doug

Madame Star

Tracey Guitar

Anni Swierk

All of those who weren't afraid to let me tell my story!

ix

re you alone? I

Are you sure?

Alone-I used to think I understood the meaning of that word. That was a long time ago. Years ago. Alone for me now does not have the same meaning.

What if I told you that there is a good possibility that you are never alone?

Are you looking over your shoulder right now? If not, maybe you should be.

Did you ever have that feeling when you are taking a shower that there is someone hiding, waiting, breathing just on the other side of the shower curtain? You see the curtain begin to move slowly in and out. Were you alone then? Or was that just a little lie that you told yourself to make yourself feel better? To make it easier to cope with whatever was lurking on that other side of that curtain.

Have you ever sat in your living room at night in your favorite chair, maybe reading your favorite book, maybe like you are doing right now, and felt as though someone was watching you? Or maybe breathing down the back of your neck? Sometimes you might think you see something moving out of the corner of your eye. Did you tell yourself it was your imagination? Was that a rationalization to keep yourself from running out the front door, screaming?

Have you ever been in your bed at night, lights out, just about to fall asleep, when you hear a shuffle on the carpet at the end of your bed? Maybe you sit up with the understanding, for one split second, that the darkness moves. Did you sit there frozen for that moment in fear? Afraid to move. How many times have you told yourself that it must be your eyes playing tricks on you? A trick of the light or a moving car casting a shadow as it drove down the street? But then you remember that you didn't hear the sound of a car.

I have told myself many things in all of the instances described above. Deceiving myself, like you, that I was truly alone. Yes, I was once like you. I used to let my mind explain away many things that should not have been explained away. But now I know the truth. And soon you will, too.

You aren't alone. At any given time, in any given place, there could be something lurking just to the right or left out of the corner of your eye. Open your eyes and you can see them. Open your eyes and watch the darkness move before you. Leave the rationalizations behind you, for just a little while.

Yes, I was once like you. Lying to myself. Fooling myself. Convincing myself that I could be truly alone whenever I wanted to be. Now I know the truth. Security is a state of mind and this story, my story, is going to pull that blanket right out from under you. This is a true story. I know, because it happened to me.

Are you alone? Are you sure? Maybe you should turn on a few more lights.

his story has been told a thousand times before, passed down from generation to generation; it's a cautionary tale for those who care to listen and heed its message. It's a trap for those who choose to ignore it or who forget it. Just how do I persuade you to listen to a story that's been told so many times? How do I find a way to make it ring true and honest for a new generation? The story carries truth, it carries a warning, and it's a rite of passage that everyone must hear. Oh, the circumstances may be slightly different from the stories that came before, but the meat is still there, bare flesh flayed from the bone by someone or something unknown and unseen.

Some will call this a tale, an old wives' tale, campfire lore intended to frighten young children and amuse grownups who were once scared little kids themselves. Even if this were an old wives' tale or merely a modern metaphor for evil, the warning is, and always will be, the same: there isn't always a logical explanation for things that happen. And the unexplainable can be a trap for the family that's unaware of the complexities of the unknown, for it casts a spell and sweeps everyone into its vortex as quickly as a man snaps his fingers. And even when the writing is on the proverbial wall, drawn in blooddeep, dark, fresh blood-the warning signs are still ignored. Ignored! How foolish is the man or woman who believes that he or she controls everything between heaven and hell. The great American dream can quickly morph into a nightmare for those unwilling to see and heed the warning signs of the unexplainable.

The nightmare is always the same: the darkness, the sounds, the stairs, and the fear ... always the same fear. If only it played out differently, if only it became a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. But no; the nightmare always picks up right in the middle. It leaves behind its unforgettable details along with my screams, which inevitably follow the dream each time it revisits me in my sleep.

It's dark. I'm standing on the basement steps. They're old, wooden, creaky, and worn. Flowered, neon-print wallpaper is peeling off the walls of the stairway. Bright flowers of seventies orange and yellow with huge leaves of olive green are dimly visible in the moonlight cast through the basement windows below. I grasp the handrail and steady myself, calming my nerves before beginning my slow decent into the moonlit darkness below. The stairs seem to go on forever; they seem to extend way beyond into the darkness, with something foreboding waiting below. With each step I take, the creaking of the stairs announces my progress to whatever lurks in the shadows.