by Corey Taylor
Well, that is my side of it. That also means we are ready to get to the good shit. Both teams are aware of the rules. They have told us a little bit about each other, likes and dislikes, and what life is like back in Bucktooth, Wisconsin. They know what is at stake, and they know we are playing for keeps. So no waiting for a commercial break, and no flipping a coin to see who goes first—square your stance, bear down on it, pray you do not hit any whammies, and prepare yourself.
Time to play the Feud.
The Mansion
IF YOU EVER FIND YOURSELF in Hollywood looking for something to do that does not have the unholy stench of “tourist” all over it, here is something you can do that will not cost you a dime. Find Sunset Boulevard and turn up Laurel Canyon, heading toward the valley. You will pass Mt. Olympus (sort of—it is not the “real” one). You will pass the neighborhoods where all the rock stars in the sixties and seventies lived, from the Mamas and the Papas and the Eagles to Jim Morrison and Frank Zappa. You will also pass the little general store on the corner where the groupies waited for all these said rock stars to come and shop or maybe just take one of them home. Once the corner store is in your rearview mirror, all that is left is a stoplight and two turns. You will pass Lookout Mountain, and then the road straightens out for a split second. Quick—turn your head to the left. Did you see the sprawling mansion set hard against a slope in the Hollywood Hills?
You just saw a haunted house.
The house at 2451 Laurel Canyon has a very strange history, and depending on who is telling it, you might get a different history each time. Owned by Rick Rubin, it has been called “The Mansion,” or “The Houdini Mansion,” and “The House Bess Houdini Built after Harry Died.” After all the research I have done and all the available info I have combed through, the only name that fits is the first. The fact is that Harry Houdini never lived at 2451, nor did his wife build it after he died. To be honest, no two people can agree on when it was actually built. Some say it was erected in 1918, one year before Harry Houdini relocated to Hollywood to get into “moving pictures.” Other people maintain that the estate was built in 1925 by Richard Burkell. Harry’s proper “house” was at 2400 Laurel Canyon, but even that is open to debate. There is no documentation to show that Houdini even owned a home in Los Angeles; he and his wife reportedly used the guesthouse of department store magnate Ralf Walker, and Bess Houdini continued to stay in that same guesthouse until Walker’s death. This is basically how 2451 Laurel Canyon got the name Houdini House. But legend has it that there was so much more. According to myth and nonsense, there was a sprawling castle with parapets and hidden tunnels, passageways for the great escapist to visit his mistress with his wife being none the wiser. You would think she might have noticed all the construction, but I do not judge; I do not even check expiration dates. I just sniff and hope.
Popular usage by a user-friendly populace has perpetuated the assumption that the Mansion at 2451 had anything to do with Houdini and vice versa. I can relate—hey, it is a wonderful story to swap over margaritas at an afternoon get-together. Gossip and rumor are a lot like trading cards—the more rare and outlandish they seem to be, the more valuable they are to all involved. So everyone from housewives to hippies gave this crispy quip a longer shelf life than it might have expected. I am confident Rubin let that bet ride as well. Nothing makes the heart grow fonder than the proposition of mystique . . . and a sweet pool.
The confusion does not stop there. Some people claim Errol Flynn lived in the Mansion in the thirties, but others claim his only real home in the area was at Mulholland Farm. Then again, if you read the book Errol Flynn Slept Here, he crashed at a lot of places over the years. So maybe that one has a glimmer of merit. I do not think he lived there per se, but he might have gotten his swashbuckling groove on. I think I read somewhere that he liked to make fuck with his socks on—either he had bad circulation or he just had a penchant for sexing in snowdrifts.
Sorry—that had dick and balls to do with here, there or anywhere . . .
What is true finally is that the Mansion burned down with everything else in the area in 1959, when fire ravaged the hills. From what I have been able to research, a woman named Fania Pearson eventually purchased the properties on all four corners of Laurel Canyon and Lookout Mountain and owned them from the sixties to the mid-nineties. These included the “real” Houdini House, the Tom Mix/Frank Zappa Cabin, and the Mansion. To this day there are people who live in the canyon who doubt Houdini ever even visited there. But by then the legend had taken on a life and purpose of its own. Never mind all the evidence and documentation—that does not stop people from seeing his “ghost” walking the grounds and frightening children. Nor does it keep groups from trying to hold séances somewhere on the property to contact the Great Houdini. The Master of Magic is making the rounds more frequently in death than in life.
The residents in the canyon have legends that have nothing to do with Houdini and his immortal coil, like how the Mansion was a squat in the heady decades of rock, roll, and the Sunset Strip. There was even a rumor that Vasquez’s gold (huh?) was supposedly hidden beneath some of the foliage on the trails that run up the back of the house. One tale features a mentally deranged gentleman who was convinced he was Robin Hood reborn, and the canyon was Sherwood Forest; children going to and from Wonderland Elementary had to beware of “arrows” and old English. Most believe this is who people truly saw when they claimed it was Houdini back from beyond the grave. I may not be a rocket scientist, but I think I can spot the difference between a spirit and a crazy fucker.
You might be asking yourself if I am defeating the purpose of this book by debunking this house and its charm. What am I doing answering questions that no one wants to ask? I am merely setting the tone for my experiences by setting the record straight on the whole Houdini thing; none of my stories have anything to do with the King of Cuffs and Cards. From what I can tell, there is no need for his presence. Tales run rampant of inhabitants being murdered or committing suicide in the Mansion. People allegedly overdosed or were assaulted at punk parties during the seventies and eighties. One story has the son of a well-to-do furniture maker pushing a scorned lover to her death from one of the balconies. Another involves finding the body of a man dressed in a tuxedo hanging from the ceiling in one of the bedrooms when the place was vacant; this was apparently in response to a rebuked proposal. I do not know what would possess a man dressed as Archibald Leach to kill himself in a vacant property, but if Homo sapiens have a defining characteristic, it is the one in which they reach for the highest and brightest example of bat-shit crazy.
Remember the one about Tuxedo Man—it will have more meaning later.
My time in the Mansion begins in 2003 when I moved in with the rest of Slipknot to begin the recording of what would be Vol. 3: The Subliminal Verses. The funny thing is that I did not even stay there that first night; I went out on the town and passed out at a stranger’s house. That was par for the course during the first month of making that album—crashing at someone else’s house. I would walk up the driveway each morning, hung over and miserable, but I would always wave and say hello to the groundskeeper, who would smile and shake his head at my appearance from the street.
Yes, I got up to some smarmy shit in that era. I did indeed have several cab company phone numbers programmed in my phone just in case one of my friends refused to take me out drinking. I did engage in some crazy belligerent escapades with certain people who lived or squatted in Los Angeles and its surrounding boroughs, suburbs, and hamlets. I did make a fool of myself at parties and the Rainbow Bar and Grill on a regular basis. I did have a drunken conversation with Ron Jeremy at a porn star’s birthday party for twenty minutes before I realized he was getting a blowjob the whole time. But that is not the type of book I want to write for you today. I mention these things in passing right now so I can satisfy your tiny craving for the outlandishly scintillating; now we can get back to the task at hand, and I can tell you about m
y other experiences in that swarthy expanse. So there was your cookie. Good to go? Moving on.
My paranormal experience with the Mansion started the way most crazy things do: with a dare.
Some of the guys and I were exploring—getting the lay of the land and checking out the place. We were running up and down the trails in the back and scampering across the bridge on the side of the house. We ran up and down and back up the stairs, looking on every floor and leaning into every room. No one had chosen their respective bedrooms yet because the majority of the band had not arrived. So we had the run of this decadent fucking keep—the house is the size of a museum. If I can be allowed to gush a bit, the place is fantastic. I was in love with it from day one. We were acting like kids, and I was having a ball until we made our way into the basement.
I know there are not many basements in California, but I believe this one was at one time a wine cellar. There was a bedroom (of sorts—it had a bed and a lamp against a brick wall), and there was also an odd room just to the left with a strange door that slid to the side. I opened it and darkness answered. There was just absolutely no light inside—no bulb or window or anything. And even though the house’s air conditioning had not been turned on yet and we were all sweating to death, this room was ice cold. Someone blurted out, “Get in there—I dare you!” So I did. I walked to the middle of the room and smiled as they closed the door. This is nothing, I thought to myself.
Then something walked right through me.
Seeing as I was in complete ebon blackness, I felt it but did not see it happen. This, however, made it infinitely worse. One minute nothing was happening, the next I was pushed backward with the violation. The only way I can describe this sensation is that it was like being possessed by the winds of Antarctica. No, that really does not cut it either. It was like someone made of ice tried to hold me. I cried out a little in the dark, and from behind the door I heard the guys laugh. I scrambled for the door handle, threw it open, and fled upstairs. Everybody was taken aback. “What happened?” they asked. I would not answer. I just walked around for a while, trying to beat some warmth into my limbs and not really accomplishing anything.
Unfortunately for the boys and me, this was only the beginning.
Gear and amps alike malfunctioned. A whole session was lost because a strange loop started playing in the headphones that would only go away when we finally shut down the whole goddamn mixing board and recording unit. Things would disappear and reappear in other rooms, rooms that were clear on the other side of the house. Everyone would tell me their stories, but only when no one else was around. They had no idea it was happening to everybody. People staying in the renovated garage under the house would wake up to someone screaming in their face, but no one would be there. Invisible visitors would sit on their beds. The dogs in the house were going ape shit; I could hear them late at night losing their minds, then find out the next day after investigation that there was not a single person around, not even a California varmint.
I have had so many people caution me against writing this book because of the incredible amount of cynicism that will wash my way like garbage on the waves—just surfing the shit to gain access to my little world in order to bring me down. My response has always been the same: it is not my fault that there are millions of human beings who refuse to believe in something fantastic. Of course, by saying that, I allow myself to fall under the same scrutiny I myself have reserved for people who believe in gods. I offer you this simple solution: read this book for entertainment, amusement, or peace of mind. I do not really care—no skin off my dick.
About a month or so into my tenure at the Mansion, my first real “holy fuck” moment happened. But before I regale you with this, I have to give you some geographical background. In layman’s terms, you have to know the lay of the land. Let me set the scenery . . .
There are several rooms and wings in the Mansion. There is a wing like a tree house that has a set of stairs and a bedroom that you can enter using a bridge. There are also three rooms at the top of the main staircase, a hallway to the left of the stairs that leads to two other bedrooms, and yet another staircase, which takes you to two more bedrooms and the “pool house.” There are also bedrooms in the aforementioned basement and “finished” garage. The place is a massive lesson in futility, honestly; paths that take you to several different places, none of which are the exact location that you were looking for in the first place. One time when I was there alone, I got so fucking lost that I finally gave up, went outside, and walked all the way around the house just so I could go in the front door and get my bearings straight. It is a beautiful yet confounding construction.
Anyway, Clown and I shared the two rooms at the end of the hallway leading away from the stairs—last door on the left and straight on til morning. It was essentially one room split into two sections; Clown had the half with the balcony and the sunshine, and I had the half with the bathroom and the thermostat. It worked out great for everyone. I later learned it was the same room that Cameron from American Head Charge stayed in when that band was recording there. The story goes that he lasted one night; something happened after that first night that drove him into the control room to sleep, and that’s where he stayed—for the entire recording process. Someone told me that he never went back in that room. Well, Clown and I were never anything if not completely and utterly obstinate. But in retrospect I can see why Cameron bailed.
On the evening in question Clown was not even there—he had gone back to Iowa to see his family. So I had the place to myself, and as people alone are prone to do, I was acting like the parents were away for the week. I was using the bathroom with the door wide open and running around buck-ass nude. My clothes and stuff were strewn throughout my hovel with not a care as to who would trip on them or what it was they were stepping on. That night it was “Enter at Your Own Risk.” Now I should explain something: there was only one door into our bedrooms. There were balcony doors, sure, but there was no way for anyone to enter using those; we were on the second floor, not to mention the fact that they were locked when Clown was away. He always locked those doors when he was gone, and I respected that—I never went in his room anyway. So there was only one door in and out of our wing, and that door opened into the hallway. The door was also perpendicular to the bathroom door, creating a sort of “L” shape in the front corner of our entryway. Basically, whoever came in, our bathroom was the first thing you saw, on the left. Get it? Got it? Good.
So I was alone in our rooms. The door to our room was shut and locked. The doors to the balcony were shut and locked. But the door to the bathroom was wide open. I was taking a shower, getting ready to hit the town with a vengeance. This was back in my Long Hair Days, so I had just washed a quart of shampoo out of my hair whilst simultaneously preparing to throw a liter of conditioner back in just to be able to get a brush through it. I was in a great mood—singing along to the Bee Gees (what? It was “You Should Be Dancing”!) and washing all my filthy bits that needed immediate attention. The shower curtain was open a smidge, and I could see the room from my vantage point. I looked up.
A man in a tuxedo walked past the open door, staring right at me.
I froze for a half-second . . . then vaulted out of the shower, racing into the bedroom naked, with way too much conditioner on my head. It was literally no longer than a second. But there was nobody there. I was alone in the room. All the skin on the back of my neck turned into white hackles. I searched the room for unlocked doors or windows, but the place was tight as a drum. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that from that angle, Tuxedo Man would have had to walk through the door of our bedroom—not open it and come in, but through it. After about a minute it suddenly dawned on me that I was soaking wet and without apparel, freezing my ass off. So I calmly yet cautiously made my way back into the bathroom to finish my shower. But my joyous mood had fled. I finished my shower with both eyes on the door. Years later a reporter told me about the man in
the tux that was found having hung himself, and I was so freaked out that I cut the interview short, which I never do. It was chilling.
The thing is, though, that I did not get a sinister vibe off the thing. Tuxedo Man was just walking through my world (or I was just taking a shower in his) and probably did not even care that I was there. Our natural instinct as human/animal combos is to fear what we do not understand—the fight or flight method. But later, when we can rationalize and focus, we can see the true nature of things. My reaction was normal, as was my realization later that there was nothing to fear. Do not misunderstand: there have been times when I have experienced forces that did have ill intent, but Tuxedo Man was not one of those malicious beings. He was just having a stroll. Probably just wanted to see my overrated nakedness. There is nothing worse than a paranormal pervert.
Over the next few months the activity tripled. One of the boys swears he watched someone walk into his room, stand at the end of the bed . . . then slowly dissipate. He was sure it was one of us terrorizing him until the thing fucked off. After that he had a hard time even being in the room by himself. He moved all his shit out and waited until the very last minute to go to bed. Another ghost got into the machine in the control room one night as we were making a rough mix of “Vermilion”—it started looping a section of a verse, so we hit “record” and began making a remix of that loop. You can actually hear it on the album: it is in between “Before I Forget” and “Vermilion pt. 2.”