My married life has a new ghost fix du jour— a show called Haunted Collector where John Zaffis pulls dirty historical do-dads out of haunted domiciles, lines them up in bell jars every harrowing episode. His basement must be bursting under the floorboards with EVP chatter, ephemeral dead men making residual trips down the hall for midnight tuna-fish.
Last night we went down to Louisiana in Deep South Paranormal where a cast of drawling ghost hunters cat-called the departed with backwater truisms about cats and frissons. Two bearded ZZ Top-types rattle and shout through the Longleaf sawmill, suffocated, chipped and abandoned.
But interestingly, our typecast yokels take a new tactic beyond respect, sympathy and confrontation. They play their guitar for the undead, unleash a melody, tempting the cryptic spirits to step over the trimmers and chippers and into the laser grids of square lights, K2 meters, thermal camera frames, the obelisk.
The peepings of ghosts have ceased to spook me. The proliferation of paranormal pollsters are crotchety and terrified, modeling and grandstanding the character American, heirs of TV Kings and monsters, castle builders, suffocating, chipping away and abandoning our very real screaming human American creature.
Last night saw the premiere episode of Deep South Paranormal.