We were set to play a haunted lodge (The Brookdale Lodge) in Boulder Creek, just outside of Santa Cruz, California. Tales of a drowning little girl, her mother in search of her, gang related murder and the hiding of dead bodies in the 1940’s permeated their own website’s description of the spooky location. The morning of the 6th, a little more research with the help of the off-again, on-again digital library we’re all drowning in revealed that ghosts were the least intriguing aspects of the Brookdale Lodge. On October 23rd of this year, the owner was arrested for things such as writing bouncing checks to employees, and denying previously promised health coverage to the same hard workers. Out on bail, he is also suspect to setting the back of the building on fire, likely to get out of the place he got involved with just two years ago, and trying to cover up the event of a construction worker who died within the past weeks, falling down an elevator shaft. Combine that with a post on a review site detailing the crimes of the five known registered sex offenders that live behind and around the lodge, and we were all of a sudden quite a bit more nervous for the nights’ gig.
On our way in off the highway, we landed on a windy mountain road for about forty minutes, thick with a fog that would make John Carpenter nervous. Already tightly wound, when we finally reached some semblance of a straight shot, a man I saw to be a drunkard and Brian saw to be a hitchhiker (probably both) ran out into the road and almost into the grill of our van. All three of us screamed as anyone would and continued on the road, far more uptight than before. Driving past a small town mostly dominated by bars and a liquor store, we arrived at the lodge and pulled in to see a few old and ragged dudes outside as well as some other musicians loading in equipment (O.K., maybe this wasn’t just a setup to make lunchmeat out of the ANR). As we checked in to get our two rooms for the night (part of the deal, maybe we would end up as lunchmeat…) a visibly exhausted man in his 40’s/50’s approached and asked about rates. When Jorge said hello to him in front of the parrot cage in the lobby, he threw his head to the side and walked away. Keys in hand, we exited the lobby to get in the van and get some food. The man was parked in front, in a beat up old car, packed to the roof and all the way to the front passenger seat with stuff, two large coolers and several metal rods strapped to the roof, and using some sort of a bright flashlight that looked like it would fit perfectly in a Ghostbuster’s toolbox. Best case scenario, this guy was a traveling paranormal researcher.
We pulled into town and posted up at a brew pub with the worst, most overpriced food of the past three weeks. While waiting for our meals, a young drifter walked in through the front door, with a framed photo and a long orange and brown bird feather in one hand. He held the two high as he incrementally and ritualistically, lowered the two items as the manager walked over. From what I could hear, the conversation went as follows:
Manager: Can I help you?
Drifter: Yes.
Manager: (pointing to photo) What is this?
Drifter: This is a photograph.
Manager: Is that you? (pointing to the top of the photo)
Drifter: (pointing to himself in the photo with the point of the feather) Yes, that’s me. I want you to have this (giving him the photograph). I will return one day to get it back.
Then the guy turned and walked out. We were told a bit later that there were a few alternative religions practiced up here in the mountains, including the belief in ancient people still living inside some of the mountains. What a weird night this was turning out to be.
We got back to the “venue” and loaded in our stuff. I’ll skip past detailing the actual show, though I will say it was a low point, and I’m pretty sure I lost a little hearing in my left ear that night due to uncontrollable feeding back of microphones and everything else onstage being pumped through the monitors as if with a desire to kill someone onstage. We packed up our stuff and stowed it away behind the stage and headed to our rooms. It was at about this point that we realized that not only were we the only three people staying at the lodge that night, but that the staff were leaving in a few minutes, and we were literally the only people staying at this huge run down magnet of seediness up in the mountains on this evening. Adding fuel to the hairs on the backs of our necks was the large black shadowy dog stalking the wing of the lodge where we were bringing our stuff. Oh, and the rooms were definitely in keeping with the rest of the night, all stains and broken electrical wiring, with a moldy plywood walkway running in front of each door.
Once everyone was gone, a cab pulled into the parking the lot. The driver got out and was yelling into his blue-tooth to his boss about how a few kids had just taken a forty dollar ride to the lodge and then jumped out of the cab and ran. With growing concern about our safety, we were pleased with this situation as it drew a cop car into the lot for a moment. Jorge went down to ask the cop if our being the only ones at this shady locale was unusual and he apparently made it clear that he was in know way surprised, and that ghosts aside, this place is run by some very shady people and draws some equally shady clientele. Jorge returned to let us know we should get any valuables out of the van, and so the two of us walked back down to the empty lot leaving Brian alone with the spooks, the cop having driven off. When we walked back up with my computer in hand, a car started coming from behind our wing of the lodge and turned in towards us, the headlights sending us running and jumping to hide behind a wall. This was it! Some knew it was just us now, and was only waiting ‘til the cop left to jump us and take everything we owned, and here I left my knife in the room. Then I peeked and saw that it was the same cop, who came back to check out our area to make sure it was safe. “You scared the crap out of us!” Jorge cracked. The cop was apologetic and divulged some more information. Yes, we would most likely be safe tonight. Yes, we should definitely lock every door and window and call him immediately if anything fishy starts to happen. And yes, the ghosts are less of an issue than the living breathing human beings that haunt the Brookdale Lodge. (Although Brian did hear a rocking chair going back and forth above his room all night).
Obviously, we’re still here, so that was the end of it for us, and we hauled ass out of town as soon as we woke up. On a side note, when I got up in the middle of the night to use the functioning bathroom in Brian’s room, I saw that he was sleeping with the lights and television on. What was playing on static drenched T.V. as I tiptoed past? “The Shining.”
sooo fake
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