Steven LaChance Blog

From the Case Files of Steven LaChance

Something happened to me recently that upset me.

I am talking about really upsetting me.

It brought back those memories from the Screaming House so clearly; I felt like I was back there living it all over again. I thought I was over it. I thought I had put it all behind me, but I was wrong.

The voice of Lorraine Warren, the infamous paranormal investigator, kept coming back to me with the warning that she gave Helen right after leaving the Screaming House in those early days: “It is far from over, honey.”

I have to admit, in those early days, I didn’t understand what she meant.

None of us did.

It was as if we could magically go back to normal life without a second thought about what had happened or what we had lived through. I tried to forget it all. I tried to forget the screams, the shadows, Helen standing on my porch with black eyes.

How do you forget all those things that never made sense, and still live your life with people who would never really understand the full impact of what you had been through? I felt like my family and friends were in pieces, and I was scrambling around trying to put everyone back together again. Surely this is how those who have lived through a war must feel. I felt like we had been through a war. Damaged goods left behind in piles of rubble with shrapnel in our backs, but our eyes were not blinded.

Unfortunately, we could see. We could see clearer than we ever had in our lives. Over and over, with each passing year, Lorraine’s words have proven to be true. This was the case recently, when once again I was reminded of Lorraine and her words of wisdom: “It’s far from over.”

I went to a conference to give a lecture on the Screaming House.

This conference was being held at an old, deserted hospital in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Tennessee. The kind of place that, in most cases, would have been demolished if someone hadn’t had the idea to preserve it for paranormal research.

Now, don’t get me wrong: there is a lot to learn from a place like this, one that’s active beyond anyone’s expectations. The deserted hospital is a gold mine of evidence, just waiting to be captured and studied. But part of me always wonders about the ethical implications of studying these lost souls. Where do you draw the line when dealing with the dead, and how would you feel if one of your loved ones was one of the many on display for research?

I find it ironic that we will sign our bodies away to scientific research upon death. Is there any difference between the research and our study of lost souls? That is why I am very careful to support only organizations that accept donations to preserve old buildings, not those that operate only for profit. If they are really lost souls, then making a profit seems to me not only unethical but heartless.

At this point, the hospital appeared to be doing everything it could just to keep its doors open. I could support the building’s historical preservation, which is why I was there. Such places provide investigators with a place to go to learn their craft and to experiment with new ideas and research. Better to do it in a facility like this than on a family that is living an unstoppable nightmare.

This particular building also had the added gem of an old psych ward on its upper level. Anyone doing paranormal research will tell you old psych wards or psychiatric hospitals are always especially interesting because of the types of activity they seem to either draw or maintain within their walls. This psych ward was no different.

Generally, when I go on these speaking engagements, I am the last person you will find participating in the investigation part of the event. It is not that I don’t want to participate with the others; it’s just I am more comfortable working my private cases within a smaller group.

A very small group.

I feel like every time I investigate, I’m taking a chance. Let’s face it, the Screaming House marked me for attack at any opportune moment. So, if I am going to take a risk, I would rather it be to help someone than to run around a building simply for the hell of it. What do I need to prove to myself? I already know what is out there. I have lived through enough and have seen my share. Such was the case that weekend at the hospital investigation.

Everyone split into groups and began investigating the building, each group breaking off onto a separate floor.

I went inside the building because I needed to find someone. I asked a young guy, who had never been to a haunted location before, to come with me. He was standing outside because he was a little too spooked by the investigation going on inside.

We searched everywhere for the person I was looking for, but we couldn’t find him. The only place left was the top floor, where the old psych ward was located. I thought there would be a group up there and didn’t think much of it as we headed up the stairs. When we got to the floor, I called out but got no reply.

We walked to the hallway, and that’s when I felt the energy rushing toward me!

I turned to face it just as it hit me in the chest, throwing me against the wall!

My first thought was the novice kid I had come up to the floor with. I knew if this thing knocked me to my knees, it would go after him, too.

“Run!”

He didn’t move.

He just stood there looking at me in shock.

“I said run!”

Puzzled and shocked, he yelled, “What?”

I tried to get my bearings. “We are in trouble. Move it! Run!” My words finally registered with him, and we were on the move. We hit those stairs and did not stop until we were all the way down.

Thank God the kid was one of my son Elliot’s friends, who had been traveling with us. I told him not to tell a soul. When Elliot found us, he took one look at me and knew something was wrong. He thought it was my heart, or that I was overheated. I did not tell him what had happened. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t find the words, and I didn’t want to worry him even if I could. So, I kept what had just happened to myself.

My chest did hurt where it had hit me. It had hit me where it knew it would hurt. You see, I had recently had two stents put into my heart. My chest was hurting like hell, and I felt completely wiped out emotionally and physically. In that moment, all I wanted was to go home. I wanted the safety of my home. I wanted to hide.

When we got home the next day, I called Lydia, my daughter, to tell her we had made it home safely. When she asked me how the trip went, I completely broke down. It all came rushing out in a flood of emotions that shocked me as much as I am sure it shocked Lydia.

I told her everything. I was angry I let it do that to me. I was angry I let it catch me off guard. I was angry, and the truth of the matter was that I was scared.

There it was: I had said it. The words came rushing out before I could stop them. I was scared.

After all of this time, and all of these years, it still had the means and the capability to frighten me. It knew where to get me. I was scared because it reminded me of those years during the Screaming House nightmare. I thought those feelings were long gone and buried. They all came rushing right back to the surface. I was scared because I never wanted the nightmare to come back to haunt me. Lorraine was right once again: it would never be over.

You see, I felt I never could get away, no matter how hard I tried.

I feel as if I am damned no matter which way I go sometimes, so I might as well be here so that at least I can see it coming.

But I guess that is the story, isn’t it?

(You need to understand that I wrote this while still living in Union, Missouri. Shortly after writing this, I left Union and never looked back. The haunting stayed there, and I was finally free.)