Jesus doesn't dance in this here town.

His voice echoed in the still darkness. "Ted, I really don't like this."

What's Corb complaining about now? Well, here's the thing: it's nine o'clock on a Saturday night, and instead of partying like the rock stars we are, like we do every Saturday night, OF COURSE, the two of us are walking about at the Mount Hope Cemetery in North Attleboro, MA, on the trail of the elusive dancing Jesus statue.

Who would have thought? A dancing Jesus. What does he do, the hokey pokey?

All right, all right, it's pure hokum, I agree with you. Some nonsense dreamed up by someone trying to make some noise. However, the location is close to Eldredge, and the site is legitimately categorized on the web as an alleged haunted location. Hey, it's on the internet, so it must be true, right?

Apparently, if you stare at the statue long enough, it will start to undulate and dance. Is this a fricking statue of Elvis or Jesus?

We weren't close to seeing it dilate, much less undulate. Instead, we were walking through the cemetery, all alone, navigating through the narrow twisty roadways, my mustang about a quarter of mile away. Searching for the elusive Jesus, we were. Me, with a camera in my hand, and Corb, with a big ass flashlight. It ws a perfect night for ghost hunting, the air cool and crisp. No one around for miles. And here was Corb, getting more creeped out by the second.

Think of him as the Costello to my Abbot. Or would that be the Elvis to my Costello?

Either way, all I know is this graveyard was way too large for us to be alone in it so late at night. This is a lush, old fashioned cemetery, dating back to the 1850s, and during the day it's lovely, filled with stately old trees, lovingly maintained, nestling side by side with row upon row of quaint New England headstones. At night, however, the lack of modern conveniences, like, say, electrical lighting, make it something else entirely. It's like walking through a garden, only it's pitch black and there's a whisper of past lives all around you. It would be the perfect place to reenact the legend of Sleeply Hollow, and Corb increasingly had no desire to go the way of Ichibod Crain.

"Ted, we need to turn around."

"Ted, we need to get back to the car."

"What was that? Ted, I don't like this!"

"Wait a minute." I stopped, pointed ahead of me. "Is that it?"

Cue the choir of angels. There in front of us, a large white statue. Jesus, arms spread wide, certainly looking happy, surrounded by a mess of flowers. The two of us stopped and stared.

A minute went by. Two. No movement.

"Should I break out some disco from my iPhone? A little mood music?" I asked. "Would that help?"

"Shhhhh." Corb stood there, staring at the statue. Another minute passed. And then finally, firmly. "It's just an optical illusion. A trick of the eye. That's what I figured."

"Are we done here?"

Corb nodded. Well, that was certainly anti-climactic. The trip there was scarier and more thrilling than the actual main attraction. But isn't that the way it is for most real life ghost adventures? I snapped a few photos and we turned around. The ghost busters had busted their ghost/not ghost. "Let's get the hell out of here," said Corb, the fear returning into his voice.

Now for the next challenge: figuring out how the hell to get back to the car.