To be completely honest, I didn’t know anything
about Zak Bagans. Who the hell was he? How did he come to own so many
supposedly cursed and haunted objects?
And why does he look like such a colossal douchebag in every picture of
him I can find? I didn’t have the answers to these questions, but it
didn’t matter. He had a building
full of spooky things and I needed in.
I quickly purchased our tickets and looked forward to the trip with
great anticipation.
Upon arriving to The Haunted Museum, we were met
with a line and a waiver. The line didn’t faze me; if this place was as
good as I heard it was, it would be well worth the wait. We took our
places at the end and began the paperwork. At first glance, it was pretty standard.
“I acknowledge the risks associated with”...blah blah blah…”bodily
injury”...blah blah blah blah…”emotional distress, death, or other
harm”...wait, what? What does other harm even entail? Hmm. Sure they were just covering their bases for legal purposes,
I initialed and signed every paragraph.
Remember how I said I didn’t mind the line?
I lied. I’m extremely
impatient and began looking around to assess what was taking so damn long.
It had been nearly an hour, I should’ve been waist deep in paranormal
activity by now. I inquired with
the worker selling $2 bottles of The Haunted Museum-branded water. Turns
out, they took groups of 11-13 people at a time and waited a solid 20 minutes
between each one. We still had
another twenty to forty-minute wait ahead of us. So, to pass the time, I began to pick each available
worker’s brain for information about the museum and their experiences in it.
My favorite was the older gentleman at the start of the line; he was from
New York, had the accent to match, and is one of the nicest people I’ve
encountered outside of my home state of Texas to date. When I asked him if the building was
really haunted, he mumbled something to the effect of, “Oh, yeah. Absolutely.
I won’t go in anymore. At
least not anywhere but the gift shop.”
I asked for more specific information, but I could tell he wasn’t
entirely comfortable sharing his own personal experiences. Rather than press the issue, I changed
the subject and we discussed what he missed most about New York; turns out, it’s the pizza. A man
after my own heart.
Our conversation was interrupted by another
worker informing us that it was our turn to enter the museum. My friend
and I excitedly made our way up the ramp passed the skull water fountain towards the set of red-lit double
doors. This was it, we were finally about to enter the museum and begin
our tour...of the ticket lobby.
(Goddamnit, y’all.) The
ticketing lobby was nice enough though. I approached the counter and
showed my confirmation email in exchange for two souvenir tickets. Once I had tucked them away securely in
my bag, I turned to find a small display of dolls and candles, a television set
showing Ghost Adventures reruns, and several framed photographs of Zak shaking
hands with well-known individuals who have visited this attraction. There
was also a bathroom in case your nerves were getting the better of you; or if,
like me, you consumed $6 worth of water prior to entering the building. Immediately to the left of the bathroom
was a wooden plaque which read, “Warning:
This building is known to contain ghosts/spirits and cursed
objects. By entering you agree
that management will not be liable for any actions by these unseen forces.”
As I was speaking with others in the group about
what drew them to this attraction, a girl who identified herself as Shealee
approached our group to guide us through the museum. “Does everyone here
know who Zak is?” she asked. I
looked around as everyone nodded excitedly. I still had no idea who this guy was, but we had waited long
enough and I didn’t want to delay us any further. “Great,” she said,
“let’s begin.”
We made our way out of the same double doors we
had entered and were led around the side of the building to the front door of
the Wengert Mansion, now known as Zak Bagans’ The Haunted Museum. What followed
was intriguing, enthralling, enchanting, to say the least. It was my macabre
dreams brought to life. Each of the over thirty rooms we entered had its
own theme and was so beautifully executed, it truly felt as though I had walked
on to the set of a horror film. In
fact, I recall being told that one of the set designers for American Horror
Story helped with a few of the rooms.
They had famously haunted objects like the Dybbuk Box, Bela Lugosi’s
scrying mirror, and the Crying Boy Painting; a painting made with Charles
Manson’s ashes, Ed Gein’s cauldron, and Dr. Kavorkian’s van; human skulls,
pieces of haunted buildings, and one too many dolls for my liking. We
were guided from room to room, given the history and legends behind the items, and
were even offered the opportunity to interact with and touch select objects.
(Yes, I touched/did everything I was invited to touch/do.) While I have so much more to say about
my time inside The Haunted Museum (seriously, I could go on for a while), it
really is something that must be experienced to be fully appreciated. Please note that not once did we back
up with another tour group, not once were we rushed out of a room, and the
whole tour lasted just under two hours from start to finish. This tour
and museum are absolutely worth your time, money, and respect.
My friend and I browsed the gift shop, made a
few purchases, and were then escorted to our car and off the property by
security. Now, I realize it sounds like we were up to something, but the
truth is, we were just the last two patrons in the building and the security
guard, despite my constant denial, was absolutely convinced that I was Jaci
Velasquez.
In the weeks that followed, I devoured anything
and everything related to The Haunted Museum. I was reading every article
written about it, watching every video filmed there, researching Zak Bagans,
watching Deadly Possessions. When I say I devoured, I mean I rabbitholed
HARD. I began to watch Ghost
Adventures in every spare moment I had, and at night I would revisit The
Haunted Museum in my dreams. For some reason, I couldn’t get enough. Additionally, I had a headache I just
couldn’t shake. It started at
dinner the evening we visited the museum and persisted no matter what I did to
alleviate it; so much so, I eventually stopped trying.
Soon after, it started to feel like something
wasn’t quite right. I was overcome with dizzy spells during the day and, at night, was having trouble sleeping. While I prefer an environment that
is cold, dark, and silent, I can sleep almost anywhere and am usually out
within 60 seconds of my head hitting the pillow. It’s true that I’m a
light sleeper and will wake at the sound of anything unusual, but typically
once I’m asleep, I’m asleep until my alarm goes off. But, for the first time in my life, I was waking up in the
middle of the night. Why? My
dog, Nox, wasn’t making noise, it was quiet outside, I wasn’t hot or
uncomfortable, I wasn’t thirsty, I didn’t have to pee; there was no logical
reason for it. Days after this
began, I started waking to the sound of a voice in my ear. I assumed it
was someone outside or perhaps a dream echoing a bit too loudly. Nonetheless, I began to track the time:
3:15am, 3:14am, 3:24am, 3:16am, 3:27am.
As a fan of horror and the supernatural, it wasn’t lost on me that I was
stirring during the witching hour.
I started to feel as though I wasn’t alone in my
room when it was in fact just me. It got to the point that I allowed Nox
to sleep in my bed. Normally, he
moved too much for me to sleep with, but I didn’t want to be alone. This
was proving to be a great idea...until instead of waking to the sound of
talking in my ear, I was waking to the sound of Nox growling. I grabbed my flashlight to try and
figure out what was bothering him; maybe a bug or something casting a weird
light, I thought. What I saw was my dog baring his teeth at an empty
corner of my room with his hackles raised. I looked at my phone.
3:15am. This sufficiently
unnerved me out to the point that I began to leave my television on at full volume
while I attempted to sleep. I
would drift in and out all night. If at any point I woke to find the TV off, I’d quickly turn it back on.
One day I was reading in my bedroom when Mother Nature called. I sat my book down on the bedside table next to a unique sticker I had picked up at a small vendors' market and left the room. Upon returning, the
sticker was now facing down instead of up like it had been when I left just
minutes prior. A panic began to wash over me. I looked up suddenly at the sound of Nox yelping. He had jumped
off of my bed, ran out of the room, and was now standing in the doorway panting with his tail firmly tucked between his legs. Something scared
him and no matter what I did, he refused to come back inside.
After about three weeks of this, I reached out
to my tarot reader and psychic. Since my first reading with her a couple of years back, she has done nothing but impress me with her abilities and insight. I told her a bit of
the trouble I’d been having sleeping and asked if she would be willing to meet
me somewhere to discuss it further.
She agreed and we met up at a small park in the center of the city.
I was sitting on a park table when she arrived.
She came over to me and gave me her usual big hug. After about
three seconds, she pulled away from me, took me by the shoulders, and asked
where I had been. I’m sure I had a puzzled look on my face because the
next words out of her mouth were, “You went somewhere and you picked up some
shit. Where did you go?”
She knows I frequently and purposefully visit haunted buildings,
houses, hotels, etc., but hearing about The Haunted Museum seemed to upset her.
She told me how she sensed that two spirits had attached themselves to me while I was
there, and equated the museum to a prison they were constantly trying to escape. She also told me that I’m an empath. "Combine this with your open mind and curious nature," she said, "and you were like a bright light moving through their
dark world--they were drawn to it.
She began to describe the first spirit, “He’s a
tall man, dressed in black; he looks like he’s from the wild west, but for some
reason I’m getting more prohibition era. He’s wearing a big brimmed hat
that is covering most of his face, he has a silver pistol holstered at each
hip. He’s not a nice man; he’s
killed many people. If you
encounter him, it’s most likely in your bedroom--he sits on your bed and hovers
over you while you sleep. He doesn’t like women who don’t know their place, he
likes to remind them where they belong in the world.” At this point, I started racking my brain trying to remember any room in the museum that had any kind of western theme to it. Then it hit me. If I recall correctly, there was a room
towards the beginning of the tour with wooden flooring and a roulette table in
the back left corner. The table was laid out to replicate a game in
action, complete with mannequins dressed in suits. Shealee painted a picture of what life and gambling was like
back in the day; she even showed us how a roulette wheel could be rigged in
favor of the house. As we made our
way out of this room, she pointed out a bible previously owned by Wyatt
Earp. Maybe I encountered him
there?
As for the second spirit, “Were there any dolls
in this place?” (Umm, yeah.
Kind of a lot.) She
described this spirit as being that of a little girl around the age of four or
five. “She loves you; she thinks you’re just the greatest and her new
best friend. I’m most worried
about her because she’s a little off. When she passed, her family put her
in the doll. They were messed up. She’s a little messed up.” This time, I quickly gave up on
recalling where within the museum I may have encountered this doll as we were
shown literally hundreds. Seriously, Zak has a massive doll collections
and each one looks like it crawled off La Isla de las Muñecas and
straight into your nightmares. Oh,
and remember Peggy the Doll? She’s
the one who caused people to fall ill and even experience heart issues via the
internet a couple of years back? She was featured in her own room in the museum
and was accompanied by a spirit box. While in the room, I attemped to speak with Peggy and her two roommates. I asked her to tell me my name. Disappointed I didn't get a response, I turned to exit the room. It was then that I heard a faint, crackling voice say, "Jenn." Perhaps this spirit was one of them?
My tarot reader carefully sketched out the man
she was seeing and gave me a list of ingredients to gather for a series of
cleansing baths I would need to take to rid myself of these spirits. She
was also going to be mixing what she referred to as Florida water for me; I
was to combine the ingredients with the mixture and cleanse myself over a full
moon cycle. I think she could
see the fear and uncertainty in my eyes because she took the time to assure me
that they would go. It would be a process and things might get worse
before they got better, but they would go. Frazzled and operating on very little sleep, I ran all over
town gathering the materials needed for my cleansing.
At this point, you may be wondering if I’m a
little, if not completely, off my rocker. I’m not. (I even had a CAT scan recently that
proves it.) I will
unashamedly admit though, I am a skeptical believer in the paranormal.
I’m fascinated by the idea of ghosts and spirits and am open to their
existence; but, I do also believe in real world explanations for nearly every
supernatural experience out there. However, when I haven’t slept in a
month and my dog is growling at nothing: I’m being haunted by spirits. I’ll try
anything. Get them the hell away
from me.
So there I was taking what would be the first of
three baths. My reader had warned me that the spirits would know I was
trying to get rid of them and may not respond kindly; so, needless to say, I
felt a little uneasy. I cleansed until I pruned and finally made my way
out of the tub. I felt like an
intruder in my own home. I was
walking slowly, deliberately, peeking around corners in case someone or
something was lurking just beyond what I could see. Sleep continued to
evade me for the next week and a half and I was growing so tired of this whole situation.
Just before my second bath rolled around, I had
succumbed to the idea of living with ghosts. That’s just what I did now.
(“Hi, my name is Jennifer and I live with the spirits of a murderous man and a psychotic
little girl.”) I didn’t flinch at
strange noises and stopped caring when Nox growled at nothing.
He would stand on the edge of my bed and walk around the perimeter while
staring at the ground. He seemed
to be following something; I assumed it was the spirit of the little
girl. One day we were both lying
on my bed when he suddenly turned his head sideways to stare at something. I
casually glanced over in the direction he was looking and saw a single auburn
tendril of hair floating in mid air. The next time I blinked, it was
gone.
I reached out to my reader to ask if she knew
what the little girl’s hair looked like; she said it was reddish brown, curly
hair. I explained how I thought I saw a bit of hair in my room. She took this opportunity to remind me
that I’m empathic and said she wouldn’t be surprised if I started seeing
spirits in the next couple of years. (Oh yeah? Cool. No,
thanks.) I grabbed my supplies and
immediately started my second cleansing.
This is where I genuinely became frightened. I woke the next morning to find I had some light bruising
and scratches down my arms. I didn’t do this to myself and my dog cretainly didn’t do
it. To this day, I have no rational explanation as to where they came from. Is this what she meant when she said they may not respond kindly?
In the weeks leading up to my final cleansing, I
was a giant ball of stress. I still wasn’t getting anything remotely resembling restful sleep, Nox was constantly
on edge, and I’d now had a headache for almost two months straight. Ready
for it to be over, I took my final bath. Much to my relief, it seemed to work! Nox was
relaxed and no longer growling at air, I didn’t feel as though someone was
in the room with me, and I wasn’t waking up in the middle of the night anymore.
I didn’t even have time to fully process what happened. I just slept. For a full day. After that, falling back into my usual sleep habits was slow and somewhat
arduous. I eased into it by
leaving the TV on with no volume while I slept. Then no TV at all. Then I kicked Nox out of the
room because his movements were keeping me up again. Eventually, I made my way back to sleeping with no lights,
no sound, and completely through the night.
So here I am, four months later, writing this
from the same room I shared with spirits. I still love horror movies and
tales of the supernatural, of course, and I still absolutely recommend Zak Bagans’ The Haunted Museum to
anyone curious about what it houses. Maybe just brush up on how to
protect yourself from things unseen before you do because, despite what you’ve
heard--and in addition to STDs and marriages that weren’t annulled in time--not
everything that happens in Vegas, stay in Vegas.
Also, you may want to develop a certain level
of comfort with clowns.
