Page 3 of Scary In Love
Atthefrontgates,a young woman in a huge black parka scans our tickets and fastens neon passes around our wrists.
“You’re all set,” she says enthusiastically. “Please note photography and filming are not permitted inside the house. Please stick to the designated route, and in the event of a fire alarm, all lights will come up and our staff will lead you to the nearest exit. Make your way up to the main doors and get ready for the fright of your life.”
A looming figure in a floor-length hooded cloak stands nearby, their outstretched arm holding a lantern to guide our way. Their face is hidden by a shiny silver mask and I find the whole thing pretty hot. The mask kink girlies are getting fed right away, it seems.
Advertising for this event has been minimal, so I’m really not sure what to expect when we get up there in terms of a haunt concept. What exactly are we trying to survive behind these walls?
“Isn’t this exciting?” I say to Peter, who’s grown terribly quiet by my side.
He shoves his hands deep in his coat pockets. “You really like all this haunted house stuff?”
Er, yes. If you paid an ounce of attention tome, you’d notice.
I keep that thought to myself. Can’t expect a man to do something as groundbreaking as observe my body language on the first date. How silly of me.
Haunted houses and scare mazes started popping up all over the country about ten years ago. These seasonal events are big business, designed to lure in freaks like me during those quiet months before family-friendly Christmas markets and Santa’s grottos take their place.
They’re often set up on big farms, or industrial warehouses, blank spaces that are tailored to the design of each experience. Asylums full of zombies who’ve escaped quarantine, farms where scarecrows come to life and chase you across pumpkin patches, Blair Witch-esque forests, and good old-fashioned ghost houses. I’ve done them all.
The best haunts are the ones where the actors are big and intimidating and get right up in your face. So yes, I guess I really do like all this haunted house stuff. Having one open in our town, in such a unique and mysterious setting, is even more exciting.
“I love them,” I tell him.
“Why?”
Wow, a question at last! Be normal. Don’t spook the man before you’ve even made it inside.
“I like the fear, the panic, the jump scares. That moment when you think you’re about to die, but you’re actually fine. All that adrenaline is such a rush, don’t you think?”
Peter screws up his face, and we continue walking.
Good job, Jenna. Not.
A lot of these places go to great lengths to decorate the approach to the main event and build anticipation. I’ve seen fake bodies hanging from trees, battered signs warning us to‘keep out’, trails of fake blood on the ground as if someone has recently been dragged away.
Here, they’ve kept things simple. Fog machines and orange lighting make the house look even spookier than usual. From hidden speakers, music drones with the sounds of howling wind and birds cawing. In the trees that line either side of the driveway, fake crows stare down at us, their eyes glowing red.
I watch carefully as the group before us heads inside, screaming at whatever awaits them behind the heavy wooden door. It slams closed behind them, and Peter flinches.
“Are you ready?” I ask, holding my palm out for him to take.
I’m curious whether he’s the type of man who sees himself as a protector, or if he’ll be vulnerable enough to allow me to protect him.
“No,” he says, keeping his hands in his pockets. “You knock.”
It’s official. Peter is a wet blanket.
He cowers behind me while I raise my hand to press the old bell, and when the door slowly creaks open, the sound effects are all real.
From the shadows inside, a small man appears before us. Like all these events, I’m instantly looking for signs of makeup and costume, the things that make or break these experiences. A bad costume will have me snapping out of the fantasy real fast.
He clears his throat as if it’s full of dust. Short and scrawny, with long, white, stringy hair, he has a pallid complexion that makes him difficult to age.
“Come on in then,” he grunts. “If ya dare.”
“I don’t dare,” Peter whispers behind me. I grab his arm and drag him over the threshold.
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
