I probably don’t have to tell you it’s Halloween. My family is a little odd in the way that we don’t celebrate it. We never have. No trick or treating or dressing up like a Disney princess. Ever. And I don’t feel like I missed out. In fact, when I was a little kid I thought that everyone else was weird and I was the normal one.
Cool thing is, our lack of respect for the holiday doesn’t stop us from expanding upon the annual opportunity to get a little scared. We detoured by a haunted house on our way home from the city tonight. They’re a pretty cheap thrill, but Dad and I have been finding one to stumble through every Halloween for three years running. It’s a real bonding experience when you think about it. Anytime someone in a clown mask pops out of nowhere wielding a chainsaw, trust me, we’ve never been closer.
I don’t know if everyone everywhere has the same amount of haunted houses as we do, but around here there’s one in every neighborhood. People practically make enough money off of them to retire twice. I don’t really know why, either. I guess it’s a good excuse to get off the farm. Sure, not all haunted houses are created equal, but if you’ve seen one you’ve pretty much seen them all. Same old drill every year. We get our tickets from some ghoul with a glowstick, then stand in line outside the abandoned school or warehouse until it’s our turn to go in.
It’s typically very dark and very cramped inside. The music or scream soundtrack is incredibly loud. All the classic scary things are in place, from cobwebs to the strobe-light tableau of the little old lady eating someone’s guts. There are a few “boo” moments, and I hang on to Dad’s coat. Nothing really scares me, however, until we get about halfway through the house and that guy in the jumpsuit (or Freddy mask, or zombie makeup) starts tagging along behind.
Friends, I cannot take it. I ball up on Dad’s head. It’s a tradition. This year was no different. That guy was coming at me and he meant business, even if he was dragging one leg. I nearly ate the sweater of the lady in front of us. And that’s the only part that ever bothers me.
So, we donated fourteen bucks to the small sector of rednecks getting rich off of haunted houses and drove home. The real thrill, however, was to come after we left so-called Scared City. Dad flipped into storytelling mode, and the yarn he spun was gruesome enough and true enough to keep me up till 2AM.
To be continued…
