All entries recorded by Gordon P. Weaver, president and record keeper of the esteemed Hillsdale Paranormal Society, widely respected in the field since 2013.
April 25, 12:00 a.m.
Meet with my bros Trent and Art at the old Goldstein place around midnight. Trent brought the advanced spectrometer he bought off of Ebay. The thing has like two telescopes attached to a stand, and we can't figure out how the hell we're supposed to use it to see ghosts. Art says that we got screwed and that we can't see ghosts with a spectrometer, but then I retort "why would they call it a spectrometer if it can't see specters?" Predictably, the jabroni has no answer.
The Goldstein place has been abandoned for years, but it takes us only about ten seconds to find a window we can jimmy open. Inside it smells like somebody took a sack of cat assholes and lit said sack on fire. We put on our night vision goggles and sure enough, there's like a herd of cats roaming about the place. One of them comes up to Trent and throws up on his shoe. It just stands there afterwards, like it wants a reward or something. I name it Cronus to honor its warrior spirit.
Spend about an hour waiting for ghostly contact, but nothing happens, so we resort to Plan B. I strut about the place, thumping my chest, telling the ghosts that they're bitches if they don't come out and play. I get no immediate reaction, but like thirty cats start following me about, meowing at me. One tries to jump on my head like a facesucker from Aliens, but I dodge at the last second and it lands on Trent's face. We spend twenty minutes trying to pry it off.
Advanced spectrometer is a big disappointment. We finally see some ghostly shadows (though Art claims it was a passing car; he's such a dumb ass) but they vanish before we can get the spectrometer over to them. Trent hears a ghostly wailing upstairs and suggests that we check it out. We record the audio, and its playback is clear. This could be the big one that catapults the Society into national recognition. Into the great unknown we venture.
So we go upstairs and there's about a million more cats up there, and they're all meowing and caterwauling, and it smells like there's a river of cat pee flowing somewhere, but intrepid adventurers that we are, we persevere. Trent starts crying that he's nervous, and I tell him to either man-up or go home and pee his bed there. I decide to further antagonize the ghosts, so I start saying bad things about their mothers and their sense of fashion. Art theorizes that maybe the cats are possessed. I yell at Cronus, strongly implying that his mother was a hoodrat and a floozy. He gives me the stank eye and farts. I didn't know a cat could fart. It smells worse than I can describe.
Turns out we really fucked up this time. After thoroughly investigating the upstairs, we come upon a room with a shut door. Trent says that the bad presence clearly lives there, so I tell him we're going to make the presence show its bitch ass. I bang loudly on the door, and immediately there's a noise, so I karate kick it in, and we all burst in with our cameras flashing, and lo and behold, there's an old lady in her nightgown, screaming and throwing her cats at us. We turn tail and run out, though Trent trips down the stairs and another cat attaches itself to his face. We pull him out while she follows us, still throwing cats. That lady has a hell of an arm, must've been a softball player or something. We hide out in the woods for a while till the cops leave. I ask Art where he heard that the Goldstein place was abandoned, and he shrugs his shoulders. Still not convinced the place isn't haunted. Art rightfully points out that it is impossible that that old lady feeds all of those cats. Ghost cats then? I make a note to investigate further.