Haunted House Hell

Haunted houses are near the top of the list of things I most hate. Right above green peppers and just below animal abusers. I can't stand watching scary movies; I don't like that "edge of your seat" feeling, etc., so you can imagine my delight at strolling through a live version of bloody, chainsaw toting teenagers in make-up that looks way too real for my taste. And no amount of chanting: "None of this is real. These are just regular people being paid to dress up and scare the bejeesus out of normal, everyday citizens" convinces you not to be scared out of your freaking mind. (Incidentally, this chanting draws a lot of dirty looks from the people in front of and behind you in line.)

So why on earth spend $27.50 to walk through a haunted house then, you ask? I only did this once, actually. Only one time because I do know this about myself, this distaste for being scared. But I was 19, on my first date with a boy I'd secretly worshiped since the seventh grade, and it was his suggestion. What was I going to do? Embarrass myself by declining the invite on the basis that I would be too scared? Of course not. Better, instead, to go along with the idea, as if haunted houses are no big deal, and then embarrass myself worse by my antics walking through the dreaded place.

We arrived with 2,000 or so folks who think being scared out of their wits is the ideal entertainment on the Saturday night before Halloween and paid the ridiculous fee to get in. How ludicrous that people will pay to be traumatized. Yet, we plunked down our cash and said "Where does the party begin?" Every step we inched closer to the front of the line, my heart began to beat faster. I ceased making any sort of conversation because my trembling voice betrayed how I really felt, dispite my boasting about haunted houses being no big deal.

No sooner had we taken five steps inside that monster mansion that some boogey man leapt out at me with such force and such surprise that the 2' space I'd respectfully left between me and Greg disappeared and I crawled halfway up his back. Literally. I also may have been shrieking. This startled Greg more than the dude in a black trenchcoat and blood-stained face and hands, and I backed off pretty quickly, nervously chuckling about how that guy just caught me a little off guard. From there, things most decidedly did not improve. I spent what seemed like an eternity but probably amounted to 20 minutes in gut-wrenching terror. Each turn in the house brought something else unexpected, extremely real and very, very scary. I gave up any pretense of being cool and sucked up so close to the back of Greg you couldn't have gotten a whisper between us. I don't think he appreciated it too much because it's probably hard to move with an extra buck twenty-five attached to your hip but I didn't care. I felt like I was losing my mind. My heart was beating so fast, I began envisioning the news reports about the girl who was literally scared to death in a haunted house. My death from extreme fear would be the reason haunted houses everywhere got banned. I'd be hated by the freaks who live for Halloween, those darker souls of the world who love a goulish holiday and the houses that accompany it. I decided then and there that I wouldn't die in the haunted house and attach such shame to my name forevermore. And I didn't but I came real, real close. I'm sure of it.

I left there with my heart in tact but my dignity long gone. I could barely look at Greg the whole ride home and I don't recall him saying much. Hard to make pleasant conversation with a girl who'd practically molested you because of fear in a silly ol' haunted house.

So this Halloween, once more the haunted houses have popped up everywhere. And while they have me to thank for their existence--for, you know, not dying during my one and only haunted house expedition--you can bet I won't be frequenting any of them. But guess who asked if I'd let him join a friend at one this weekend? Right. My 11 year old. The one who is even more afraid of scary stuff than I am. You might recall The Longest Night Ever from earlier this summer: the only night I've had to sleep in his bed with him because he was so scared after watching a scary television show. Tel-e-vision show. Relive that episode here. And yet he's asking to go experience that horror in person. See, his friends think it's cool and I'm betting Chase thinks that folks jump out and yell Boo! and then the lights come on and everyone laughs. He doesn't realize it's non-stop fear and terror that you believe is real no matter how sane you are or how much chanting you do otherwise. No, I think he'll be passing on the Haunted House this year--I like sleeping in my own bed.