Page 1 of Scaredy Cat
1
Mediocre.
A bloody, machete-wielding leprechaun screams in my face, his voice sounding a little rough at the edges, but all I can think about is how mediocre this whole haunted house is. Especially when I feel his warm, cigarette-tinged breath against my face, making me press my lips together in veritable disgust.
In my head, I’m already trying to figure out how to review this place nicely, instead of just writingmediocrefive hundred times and posting it on my page. That would certainly be a new thing, I suppose. Though I doubt anyone who subscribes to my blog,Scaredy Cat, and is looking forward to my haunted house commentary this year, would like to see it.
Especially as one of the first posts of the season.
When I sidestep him to continue along the hallway of the warehouse, he comes with me, trying too hard and brandishing his fake weapon in my face. It’s a mistake, because this close, I can easily tell just how fake it is. The blood is too bright, and the cheap plastic doesn’t look anything like real metal.
“Excuse me,” I say politely, giving him a sweet smile I’m sure he can’t see in the darkness of the building. I’ve already tripped twice, and the strobe lights overhead aren’t doing a lot for mysense of balance. Of course he only wails at me in response, but once he spots the group of college kids behind me he loses interest,thank God, and moves to terrorize them instead.
Quickly, I take advantage of his distraction and make my escape. Meandering down the hallway, I look with hopefully invisible disdain at just how cheap and pitiful the haunt’s setup is. While I get that it’s a first-year production for them, and clearly the group in charge is having a lot of fun, there’s no way I’m the only one who's disappointed.
Even the high school haunted forest I went to last year was better than this. Overenthusiastic bridge-dwelling werewolf and all. This reminds me of a county fair’s sad attempt at a haunted house, with props found in basements, garages, and yard sales. The smell of cheap plastic and old fake blood is everywhere, and so far, I haven’t seen one thing here that feels original.
A door opens in front of me, nearly hitting me in the face, and proving again just how badly designed this place is. I stumble back from it with a sigh, trying not to roll my eyes and utterly failing. A woman with fake blood splashed over her clothes lunges toward me with her arms out, but at the last minute she trips over one of the pushed-up sections of carpet that I’ve already fallen victim to.
Unlike me, however, she doesn’t regain her balance. The woman’s face shifts into genuine surprise, and her snarl turns into a gasp as she tumbles into me. I throw up my arms, trying to brace both of us. I fail,naturally, and both of us end up in a heap on the floor. My knees take the brunt of my fall and bang against the hastily stapled down carpet under us.
“Fuck!” I gasp as the girl starts stammering apologies. My knees are burning from the impact against the poorly disguised concrete, and my eyes water; the unbidden tears are hot against my cheeks before I wipe them away. “Oh yeah, oh wow.That hurts.” Rambling about my pain doesn’t really help me physically, but it sure helps emotionally. Probably.
The girl springs to her feet just as the sound of voices gets closer. Apparently, the college kids have gotten tired of the leprechaun wailing in their faces and brandishing a plastic blade.
“Oh, shit…” One of the guys, sounding a little drunk, swoops down to pull the girl to her feet, while another hooks his arm under mine and hauls me up as well. My knees protest sharply and I stumble, biting back a hiss, but manage to stay on my feet as even the leprechaun notices something’s wrong, judging by the way he’s talking fast into a walkie-talkie, his machete forgotten and leaning against the wall.
“I’m fine,” I assure them, wincing a little. My knees feel hot, like rug burn, and when I look down, I notice that one knee of my leggings is torn a little, showing my pale skin underneath. Great. Totally what I wanted tonight.
“Hey, hey, everyone okay?” When another door opens, the girl who tripped into me whirls around, scowling.
“I told you to fix the fucking carpet, Mike!” she snarls, gesturing at me. “I fell over it and knocked her down! What if she’shurt?”
“I’m really not hurt,” I assure everyone, closing my eyes against the consistent flash of the strobe above. God, I’m so going to get a headache. The college boy holding me up reluctantly removes his steadying grip when I step away from him, trying to look like something other than a fall victim. “It’s no big deal?—”
“It’s a big deal,” the girl cuts in, looking pissed in her torn flannel and blood-spattered jeans. Mike, who must be the owner, sighs and gestures for me to follow him, apologizing to the group of college kids as I reluctantly follow him through the half-hidden door he came out of. The girl comes too, and I noticefor the first time that she’s got a scraped-up palm where she must’ve caught it against something.
Lights flare brightly once we’re out of the adjoining hallway and in what appears to be the break room that definitely doubles as the space where the cast gets ready. Mirrors line one wall, with haphazard tables strewn with props, costumes, and makeup in front of them. I catch sight of my pale face, displeased expression, and even the ragged place in my leggings before moving to sit in the chair Mike pulled out for me. His eyes dart everywhere as if trying to gauge whether I’m mortally injured.
Lucky for him, I’m too delicate for court battles, and I’m not hurt enough to want to do anything but go home.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, sitting back against the chair and pulling my leg up into my lap so I can look at my knee. As expected, a rug burn is scratched across my kneecap, making me wince. “It’s really not a big deal, and accidents?—”
“I know you,” the girl says suddenly, cutting me off again. She’s gently dabbing fake blood off of her hand where the scrapes bleed sluggishly, but her eyes are on mine, bright behind white contacts that make her eyes uncomfortably unnatural.
I sigh, but I don’t deny it. She probably does. Theyinvitedme here after all.
Mike looks at her, obviously confused, and makes a face, but the girl frowns back at him. “Youknow her too,” she accuses. “We literally invited her here for tonight’s opening. She runs theScaredy Catblog.”
Dutifully, I take a few tissues from a box and dab at my knee, getting some dirt and small drops of blood off of my skin, even though it’s not really necessary. I’m just trying to avoid this conversation.
“It’s really not a big deal,” I try again to assure them, but I can see Mike running his hands down his face as he groans in realization.
“We invited a Halloween content creator to opening night, and we injured her. Great. I bet your review of our haunt will just be…great,” he mumbles.
This is exactly what I try to avoid, I think as I toss the tissues in a nearby garbage can and straighten in my chair. Ineverlike owners knowing who I am, or talking to me in person like this. It’s always awkward, though usually not quite this awkward, and they try to glean a few clues from me to figure out what I’ll be posting after the visit.
Mediocre,with a side ofrug burn.
