I just returned home from venturing into The Beast; the most famous haunted house in the Kansas City area. I must say, it was a satisfying adventure. I was good and spooked, for $25. Upon arriving to the spooky warehouse, however, the music they were blaring outside was anything but festive. Shania Twain and Rascall Flatts? Last time I checked, country music doesn’t get most people in a ghoulish mood. Then again, what do I know.
When we arrived, we were shocked to see the line at the entrance begin at the front of the door and trace the entire front of the warehouse, only to curve around the side and wind all the way back toward the parking lot. Probably a good 250 to 300 people in line. Not a surprise, seeing as it was Friday night, AND the night before Halloween. Fortunately for us, we had decided to pay only $5 extra to purchase our tickets online and bypass the entire line and had zero wait. Cheap bastards are going to be there until New Year’s Eve at that rate. Suckers.
Like a true veteran of haunted housing, I immediately called “NOT THE CABOOSE!!” followed by “AND ALSO NOT THE LEADER!” As those are the two worst positions in the group. The person in the back always gets heckled by the hunch-backed goblin who laughs like a lunatic. The person in the front is the first to accidentally stick their fingers in the mouth of the bloody prison inmate ghost who is snorting like a possessed pig as they take awkward, uncertain shuffling steps forward, arms outstretched in the utter darkness, trying to figure out where to hobble to next. It only made sense that Trenton would be our fearless leader, so he got stuck introducing us to the “neighbors.”
The first gentleman to get all up in my business and breathe on my face like he was getting paid to do it (because he was) was actually chewing Winterfresh, which was a pleasant surprise. Years previous I always got accosted by “Steve,” former Quizno’s employee who had just come from devouring what smelled like a lamb and onion gyro, extra french mustard and onions. Never a pleasant experience.
For some reason, when I am going through haunted houses, I feel like it’s necessary to greet everyone working there. “Oh, hello,” I’ll say to the zombie bride. “Thanks!” I’ll say to the serial killing werewolf, you know, just thanking them for doing their job.
The one thing that truly causes me great anxiety in haunted houses though is chainsaws. Every time. How easy would it be for some chemically imbalanced sociopath with a thirst for blood to actually use a real chainsaw and slaughter an unsuspecting haunted house-goer to death in front of everyone? Easy as pie. Why? It would sound no different–the chainsaw would sound the same, the blood-curdling screams would sound the same. With flashing strobe lights and cramped, pitch-black corridors, it would be just too simple to assassinate someone as their friends squeamishly shuffled forward to get out of the room and into the next.
Here’s what I hate: the people that pay to go to the haunted house and say things like, “That’s not even scary,” “This is so gay!” or “Are you actually trying to be scary right now, or….?” to the people who are jumping out at them. Listen, folks–if you are paying money to go to a haunted house, THAT is what you are paying for. If you aren’t scared by it, don’t go. That’s like paying for a prostitute and then telling her sex doesn’t even feel good to you. If you don’t like it, spend it somewhere else.
Then there’s always the five-foot, four-inch wigger “tough guy” trying to impress the slutty 14 year old girl with blue eyeshadow he brought along that says things like, “If that guy touches me I’m gonna kick his ass!!!” after squealing like a six year old girl watching Friday the 13th for the first time. Yeah, kick his ass for doing his job, queer. How about next time you go to McDonald’s you right hook the cashier for passing you your Quarter Pounder with cheese.
It is an odd concept to me that people, including myself, pay money to get frightened for a short amount of time. We take nothing tangible with us from the experience (unless you’re like us and got a wicked photo to cherish the event forever). Then again, it’s not much different than paying for beer and getting pants-shitting drunk for a couple of hours. Even then though, the likelihood of you taking something from the experience to remind you of it forever is ten times more likely. i.e. a baby, maybe a DUI, perhaps a liver transplant.
What I really want to know is, who are these individuals that voluntarily apply for positions to work at haunted houses? Folding gorditas might suck, but would I rather do that than cover my face and hair with fake blood, wear a cape, lose my voice surprise-screaming at every other person that walks by my corner, and get spit on and mocked by every passerby for $7.25 an hour every day for four weeks? Probably. Do you think these people like can’t WAIT for Halloween to roll around every year so they can don their face masks and wear glow sticks around their necks? Are they addicted to psychodelic drugs? I would probably have to be. I have not once actually met another person who has worked at a haunted house, making it quite evident that whoever does is not your average midwestern college kid.
Anyhooter, I’m off to move it, move it.
“I hear you’re the most selfish doctor ever, you don’t care about anyone but yourself, you think everyone else is an idiot, and you’re a total ass.”
“…I was drunk that day.”