Flashback: June 17, 2011. Rolling Hills Asylum. Me, my sister Danielle, and, uh… Tina, all geared up for the premiere of Paranormal Challenge with Zak Bagans. Now, this wasn’t just any place—it was Rolling Hills Asylum, a one-stop shop for everyone society wanted to bury while they were still breathing. The place practically oozed misery, like it’d soaked up every last ounce of suffering over the decades. I half expected it to reach out and slap us.
And, of course, the first thing I do? Drop a piece of equipment. On national TV. I had barely crossed the threshold, and suddenly my fingers decided they didn’t know how to hold things. Zak Bagans, our esteemed host, gave me a look that was just shy of laughing in my face. I’m pretty sure he enjoyed it a little too much. He kept his “host” hat on, though, which, I guess, is why he’s Zak Bagans and not some ghost-hunting witch tripping over wires.
Our competition that night? Resident Undead, led by Dan Hoven, who immediately sized us up as “just girls.” Nothing like a little casual sexism to really kick off the spookfest. That dude looked at us like we’d wandered in off the street with zero clue what we were doing. I mean, thanks for the motivation, Dan! Let’s just say his opinion isn’t exactly on my list of things to care about.
Then there were the judges. Dave Schrader was there to slice through our evidence like a sushi chef, and Gary Galka? He knew the equipment better than we did and was ready to call us out if we even thought about stretching the truth. These guys were not here for anything less than the real deal, and, honestly, knowing they were watching just amped up the intensity. You can’t fool guys like that; they’ll catch you in a lie faster than a kid with chocolate all over his face.
As we moved through the asylum, it felt like the place was starting to “coagulate” around us. Yes, I said coagulate—it’s like all that stagnant energy was just pooling up and getting ready to wrap itself around us like an ill-fitting suit. Danielle gave me that look when I said it, the one that says, Are you actually speaking English right now? But hey, it fit, and we all knew exactly what I meant. Rolling Hills wasn’t your friendly neighborhood haunting. It was the kind of place that sticks to you like cat hair on a black sweater—annoying, a little suffocating, and impossible to shake off.
We combed through those halls, feeling like the place was daring us to poke around, each of us on edge, pushing through that layer of something I can only describe as the smell of “sweaty socks and despair.” It wasn’t about just finding something spooky; it was about staying in the game, keeping our heads, and maybe getting one over on Dan and his “just girls” nonsense.
Honestly, it was one of the best nights of my career. Dropping that equipment, dealing with Dan’s attitude, feeling the place “coagulate” around us—every bit of it was a lesson. That night taught me more than any ghost-hunting handbook could. And even if I’m not sending Dan a Christmas card anytime soon, I’ve got to admit, Rolling Hills left its mark. Or maybe I left mine.
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