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  • Publicity

    This last fall I had many newspapers and well known magazine come and then write articles about my house, The Ravens Grin Inn, in the little town of Mount Carroll, illinois.
    I have been open for tours almost every night of the year for the last 23 years, so there is a substantial number of people who know about Ravens Grin.
    I have said many times that giving everyone who darkens your haunt door the best, most interesting time possible will reap it's own never know "Who" is in the room or what possible influence they may have good or bad upon countless potentual customers .
    The reason for this post is because recently I got an e-mail in which the author of the nice and funny article that appeared in Chicago Magazine last fall informed me that the reason she was here was because "a high-powered publisist from Chicago had been to my house with his children " had insisted that she come to my house and write about it.

  • #2
    Oh sweet Jim!!! You need to track that down and post it for us. Please pretty please !!
    ~*~How is a raven like a writing desk ?
    ~*~*~There both the perfect tools for picking at the brain.
    ~*~*~*~An my favorite game you ask ?
    ~*~*~*~*~ Raven on the desk of course.

    Jessica Ward


    • #3
      Chicago Magazine /October 2010

      The Escape Artist
      --Catey Sullivan

      I am profoundly uneasy-which is the point of a haunted house, but still. Sitting in the pitch-black parlor of Ravens Grin Inn in Mount Carroll, Illinois, I'm thinking this is how horror movies start: A headsmackingly clueless woman wanders into a place that ends up being infested with chain-saw-massacring psychopaths. This is the part where I roll my eyes at the movie screen, because anybody that stupid deserves to have her brain eaten by zombies.
      On Halloween , people camp out at Ravens Grin waiting for the owner, Jim Warfield, to escourt them through the four-story , 15 room-plus monument to the macabre. But tonight, I'm the only one here. The tour which lasts an hour, starts in the parlor, with Warfield, 61 (Doesn't look a night over 190!)---I put that in=JW.) delivering a monologue detailing the house's history, along with a bit of his own autobiography.
      "People think i'm cr-a-a-a-a-a-a-zy," he cackles,"Maybe I am." (I don't remember ever saying this-I'm not into self-incrimination)=JW.
      Tonight, Warfield's voice has a manic edge as he recounts how his first Wife left him because of the house--specifically, the ghosts who pulled her hair whenever she went down to the wine cellar. Suddenly I hear something skittering. Rats? Cockroaches? Rabid feral possums? I'm pondering the increasingly alarming possibilities when the couch I'm sitting on lurches. It's a realtively gentle motion, but I'm on my feet in a nanosecond, shrieking.
      Warfield turns on the lights. And I see the skittering wasn't Willard but Warfield, shuffling around in a pair of fuzzy slippers.

      In the parking lot there are a dozen people waiting for the midnight tour. I tell themto watch out for the Loni anderson Monster before I disappear into the night.

      the article is longer but I'm a painfully slow typist.......sorry.