Page 15 of Scaredy Cat
And, of course, reassure both of them I picked the least terrifying haunt available. Dusk House is geared more for teens than adults, with the budget of a high school theater production, so I’m certain it’s one my friends can handle. Even the fake blood always somehow looks cheap and fake, especially splashed on clearly plastic weapons from the discount section of the toy store.
But as some of my fans aren’t into the hardcore haunts like I am, I always try to include a few of the more family friendly ones for them, even if they aren’t really my thing. Knowing I’ll forget if I don’t do it now, I shoot off a text in the group chat, checkingto see if we’re still good to meet for dinner before the haunt. While I wait for an answer—assuming they’re even awake this early since it’s a Saturday—I take a bite of my donut and switch to looking at my blog, scrolling through the comments manually instead of just checking the highlights in my notifications.
Most of them are pretty predictable, with just a few comments about my post or their own experiences at Nightmare Ridge.It’s a pretty popular place, meaning I’m not surprised that so many of my followers are looking forward to going this year. I ignore the comments begging me to go to certain haunts, seeing as I already have my schedule for the season planned out and I don’t like to deviate once I’ve posted it online. Which, now that I think about it, probably says more about my need for a schedule and predictability than how it would be received online if I did something spontaneous and out of the blue.
Warden? What are you talking about?
The comment catches my eye, and my brows furrow as I read and then re-read the reply to it.
Nightmare Ridgeis really strict on the no-touch thing. Someone put fake blood on you???
My head tilts a little to the side, and I reread that one as well. Still, I take it with a grain of salt. There’s always the chance of being touched if the actor gets into the show and they feel like the guest is okay with it. I’ve had it happen before.
Just admittedly, not at Nightmare Ridge.At other, less regulated, more backwoods places that only last a few years, it can be pretty common. But I hadn’t really thought anything of it last night. Things happen, and it definitely didn’t take away from the experience for me. If anything, it made my night better.
The memory of it is more visceral than anything, like my body remembers the feel of being backed into the fake cell, listening to the soft breathing of the man under the wolf-skullmask. He’d been close enough to reach out, to keep me there, and the touch of his skin on mine was?—
Well, I suppose it’s the closest I’ve come to being afraid in a long time, and I mentally applaud the actor for it. I suppose it could’ve been a bad thing if I were someone else; someone who doesn’t appreciate being pushed a little in a safe environment. As I read the comments again, a small frown touches my lips. I’m not aiming to get anyone in trouble, and seeing as last night was the opening night, I’m of the opinion that the warden of the asylum is a new addition, which is why so few people are familiar with him.
My fingers flex over the keys as I put together a reply in my head, not wanting to come off annoyed or in any way defensive, but wanting to make sure I’m effectively defending the cast member in case someone who works there ever sees or hears about my review. Still, it takes a few tries before I can get out what I want to say, and when I finally hit enter on my reply, I sit back to read over my words, just to make sure there aren’t any stupid typos or mistakes.
It was barely any touching, truthfully. And I’ve never seen the warden before this year, either. I’m thinking he’s a new addition, since they changed up the trail and really put a lot more into it. Seriously, Nightmare Ridge is already a frontrunner for my favorite haunt this year, and I can’t speak highly enough about it. Maybe when you visit, you’ll get a fun run-in with the warden too. Just be prepared to get a little bloody.
That feels friendly, in my opinion. And, hopefully, intrigues people enough for them to check it out so the people who run Nightmare Ridge will see how much people enjoy this year’s additions, and thatadditionspecifically, if I have anything to say about it.
I end up obsessively checking the comments for the next few hours as I work, editing videos I filmed over the past couple of weeks in preparation for spooky season. Making videos a little bit in advance helps when I start getting overwhelmed; so I want to have at least two ready to release in case I need to take a break to allow my anxiety to completely overwhelm me and knock me on my ass for a weekend.
It’s happened before. With the constitution of a perpetually screaming hamster, it’ll definitely happen again. The wholeSquad Ghoulssituation is still at the back of my mind, floating like a clump of unwelcome dog hair that continuously avoids vacuums and brooms. So far nothing has really come of it, except a few unhappy comments on my blog right after it happened.
But I worry there will be more as the video circulates. I worry their die-hard fans will take grave offense at the way I finished out the show, and the way I sort of lashed out at them on my blog for ambushing me with the question.
Really, I just worry.
I drag my feet a little getting ready, not as excited as I could be for tonight’s kid-friendly haunt. Of course I’m happy to spend the evening with Brynn and Madison, but it’s hard to write content about a place I objectively know isn’t designed for hardcore scare fans like me and not call itmediocre.
It might have to wait until tomorrow morning instead of it being something I can immediately come home and write about.
The drivetoward Chicago is more interesting in the evening than it will be coming back, and somehow I manage to miss most of the traffic I’d been wary of. Sure enough, though, once I’m in what I’d call the outskirts of the city, my quicker than average journey turns into something rivaling Mrs. Elmore’s pace across the road and up my driveway. It’s hard not to bang my headagainst my steering wheel, and not for the first time, I remind myself why I prefer where I live, instead of pining for something right outside the city like Brynn and Mads have.
Well, that and I like not having to sell a kidney to pay my mortgage.
At last I make it to the diner we discovered when we drove up here during high school, when we stayed out at a movie festival for long enough that Brynn’s diabetes had made itself known. And since we’d been out of snacks, we went looking for the first available source of sustenance for our best friend.
Now, as I pull into the parking lot of The Waffle Wagon,I tap my knuckles against my steering wheel and wonder if we’re the only ones to buy the t-shirt out of the strange little gift shop that clutters the front of the restaurant, right when one walks through the door.
Glancing around the mostly empty parking lot, I note with an unsurprised sigh that my friends aren’t here yet. I’m a few minutes early, after all, and with friends that are notoriously always a few minutes late, I can’t really be surprised. But it’s been too long of a friendship for it to ruffle my feathers, so I step out of my car and stretch up onto the balls of my feet, my neck feeling stiff from the terrible, gremlin-like pose I spent most of the day in.
I could’ve gotten up and worked at my desk, I remind myself silently as I tug open the diner’s heavy wooden door. But no. I chose to curl up around my laptop, squinting in the dim coolness of my room as I tapped away and went through videos. I can blame only myself for this problem, really.
There’s no one standing at the register, and I continue rolling my shoulders a few times to loosen them, grimacing as I press my fingers to the base of my skull, then wincing at the tightness. I need a massage, obviously, not that I really have the time or a ton of extra money to get it. I’m sure if I asked Mads or Brynn tobecome my impromptu massage therapist, they’d certainly have opinions about my lack of an intimate social life rather than helping.
With the hostess still missing in action, I take a moment to look around the restaurant, the gift shop the opposite of subtle with the racks of miss-matched merch that always make me wonder if maybe at some point in the mid 1800s, this place was actually important. As per usual, The Waffle Wagon is nowhere near full. A family is sitting in one of the large corner booths, the parents looking like they’ve been through a war that ended here, while their two kids are glued to iPhone screens.
My lips twitch, the frazzled family reminding me of the vacations Madison’s family took us on that had spanned long trips across the United States to visit the mountains and ski resorts out west. After biting my lip to hide my stupid grin as the mom makes one more attempt to take the phone back from the younger girl, my eyes move to the other side of the restaurant, where the only other patron sits. He’s facing away from me with his hand on the table, head leaning against the window.
With the way the building is shaped, I can only see his curly, auburn hair that’s redder than mine even after a summer in the Indiana sun, though still a few shades short of actual copper. It sits lank and wavy on his head, falling just barely below his ears. His skin appears tan, though from here I can’t see more than the side of his neck and his wrist peeking out from under his long-sleeved shirt. He shifts a little, and I suddenly worry that he can see my reflection staring at him through the window.
I’m saved from making an ass out of myself by the hostess appearing, chewing gum while she looks me over. Just then the door behind me opens, admitting my two best friends in a hostile conversation over pancakes or hash browns.
