Brian Sigley (5:12)
That's right. And I'm so excited for you all to have the chance to see this movie. Watch the Life of Chuck in select theaters on June 6th and everywhere on June 13th. The Life of Chuck in select theaters on June 6th and everywhere On June 13th. My name's Tony Pickman And I'm not the kind of guy who believed in the supernatural. Never have been. I was raised Catholic, said my prayers and never thought twice about ghost stories. To me they were just that, stories. And I was never one for stories that couldn't be explained with logic or reason. But that was before we moved into that house in Atchison. It was New Year's eve, few years back. 92. Deborah and I were just starting out. She was four months pregnant with our first and we needed a place to call our own. And this place, even though it wasn't much to look at from the outside, was perfect for us. It was a two story brick number from the 1800s, but had been freshly renovated inside. Three bedrooms, a basement, the kind of place you could raise a family in. So we eagerly unpacked, settled in and started preparing the nursery. Deborah had all these plans. Pale yellow walls, white trim, a rocking chair by the window. And I was just happy to see her smile. It all felt right, you know. Well, for the first month it did. Looking back, I think the house was testing us at first. Seeing how we'd react to little things before it started showing its true nature. Because it really did start with little things. I'd noticed the overhead light slowly dimming before flaring back to full brightness. The oven timer started going haywire too. You'd set it for 10 minutes, look away for a second, and suddenly it'd read six. Look again, 20. Then Deborah started noticing the cold spots. Parts of the second floor would feel like ice even though we didn't have ac. And more than once I'd see the teddy bear mobile above the crib start playing on its own. Just music out of nowhere. But I kept telling myself there had to be explanations. Old house, faulty wiring, drafty windows. All things that made complete sense if you didn't believe in ghosts. And I definitely didn't want to believe in ghosts. By June, our son Taylor was born. And for a while everything felt normal again. We were too busy being new parents and learning to function on minimal sleep to worry about the little things anymore. But all of that changed one night in early autumn. We'd been at my parents house for dinner and came home after dark. I carried Taylor upstairs, but the moment we stepped into the nursery, I froze. All the stuffed animals, every single one, had been arranged in a perfect circle on the floor and I swear it, they'd all been on shelves or chairs that afternoon and now it looked like they were having a meeting. We found out later that my sister in law had stopped by to Drop off a high chair while we'd been gone. But when we called her, she swore everything had been normal when she was there. Or almost everything, because she mentioned this overwhelming feeling of unease in our house. So much so that she left as quickly as possible. Deborah and I put the stuffed animals back where they belonged, turned out the light and went downstairs. But we soon heard Taylor whimpering, and I went back up to find the nursery light on again. And now one of the teddy bears, this little beanbag one, was lying face up in the middle of the floor. We searched the whole house, thinking someone must have been playing a trick on us. But we found no one hiding anywhere. No sign that anyone other than my sister in law had been there at all that day. But 20 minutes later, Deborah went up to use the bathroom and called down to me to come upstairs now. And sure enough, that bear was back on the floor. Same position, same spot. The next day, my mother made a strange connection. She knew someone whose daughter had lived in the house before us. And after talking to her, she learned there had been issues. Their son's toys would end up scattered everywhere, but he'd insist he wasn't the one doing it. Instead, it was an invisible entity, the boy called Sally. Then my brother connected us with a friend who claimed to be a psychic. I wasn't expecting much from the call, of course, but without even visiting our house or hearing about what had happened so far, she told us there was a spirit here. A girl between 5 and 13 years old. A girl named Sally. But the psychic insisted she wasn't harmful. Instead, she was curious and playful. So if we wanted to keep order in our house, we would be wise to set down some ground rules. This is where Deborah and I started seeing things differently. She'd always been fascinated by the paranormal and even admitted that she'd secretly wanted to see a ghost. So to her, all of this Sally stuff was pretty exciting, even comforting in a way. Better a playful ghost than an intruder, she said. Me, I wanted nothing to do with it. Spirits, if they existed at all, weren't cute or friendly. And they certainly weren't something you invited into your home. So I started spending more time at church. Not just Sundays, but weekday mornings, too. Sitting in the pews, trying to make sense of what was happening in my house. But Deborah embraced the whole thing. I'd catch her talking to Sally, telling her not to touch this thing or that. One night, I found her in the nursery rocking chair, telling stories to what she said was a cold spot next to her. And the more she reached out to whatever was in our house. The more I pulled away. And eventually, it really started putting a strain on our marriage. But right then, I didn't know how to bridge the gap. How do you compromise when one of you sees a friendly ghost and the other sees something much darker? But I tried to compromise. I sat down with Debra and we talked to the empty rooms, laying down ground rules for Sally. She'd have to put her toys away, leave the baby alone, and always play nice. Remarkably, things got quiet again after that. Normal, almost. And since the baby was healthy and Deborah was happy, I was content. Maybe I'd been wrong about this house the whole time. Maybe my Catholic upbringing had just made me paranoid. So I tried to loosen up. And when my brother came over to visit the baby, I did something really, really stupid. We were sitting in the living room, and that teddy bear, the one that kept ending up on the floor in the nursery, was now sitting on a shelf above the couch and trying to show off how relaxed I was trying to be about the whole thing. I picked up my camera, pointed it at the bear, and said the words, I'll regret for the rest of my life, Sally, if you're here, say cheese. And the moment I snapped the picture, my brother started yelling because that bear had completely turned around a full 180 degrees right in front of our eyes. That was it for me. I bolted for the stairs, ready to get out of there. And my brother tried to get up, but he said something was physically pushing him backwards. Something icy cold that literally froze his body in place before suddenly releasing him. And I could tell from the look in his eyes, this wild, primal fear I'd never seen before, that whatever was happening here was more than just innocent play. Whatever was in our house was powerful enough to physically restrain a grown man. And if it could do that, what else could it do? So I called for Deborah, grabbed the baby, and ran for the car. I remember my hands shaking so badly I could barely get the keys in the lock. Deborah, meanwhile, was outright confused. But as I buckled Taylor into his car seat, I felt this sudden, searing pain rip across my back, like someone had taken a razor to my face skin. I didn't stop to check what it was, though. I wanted out of there so bad. So we piled into the car and drove away. It wasn't until we were safely at my brother's place that Deborah lifted my shirt to see what had caused the pain. And there, running down my back, were three long, bloody scratch marks. And that's when I knew, for Certain that my instincts had been right all along. Sally wasn't just a ghost. And now she was done playing nice.
