copyright 2016, Susan DeLay
After friends begged, cajoled, threatened and mocked me about my fear of haunted houses, I gave in and went with them. Naturally it was a dark and stormy night and a full moon made an appearance from behind the clouds. It wasn’t your run-of-the-mill haunted house. It was the Basement of the Dead. Nothing good happens in a basement.
What was I thinking?
Dressed in comfortable clothing and running shoes, I tucked a flashlight, matches and a silver cross into my pockets. You can’t be too careful. When I noticed a few elementary school-age children in line, I felt better. How bad could it be if innocent children were there?
The ticket taker reminded us that once inside the Basement of Dead, we were on our own. We were lone wolves who could trust no one. I believe at that point he twirled his Snidely Whiplash mustache and I immediately started sizing up the people around me, looking for the best human shield.
While we waited to enter the basement, two zombies with chainsaws chased a couple of cocky teenaged boys through the yard. A bloody creature on stilts, who moved faster than I do in running shoes, terrorized a group of girls. Let the screaming begin.
Finally, it was our turn. We entered the house and began our descent down the creaky, wooden stairs and into the Basement of the Dead. (Cue organ music.) This was a time to remember a key lesson from kindergarten—hold hands and stick together.
As we made our way through the basement, we entered a round room with mirrors covering the walls. We’d been advised not to look into mirrors because they are gateways to another world. Vanity tempts most to look, but I had no problem obeying the rules. For decades, I’ve been avoiding mirrors the way I avoid cameras.
The basement hall of mirrors led into a dark room that was at least 10 degrees colder than the mirror room. It was a cross between an old-fashioned hospital or morgue, and equipped with every medical torture device known to man. Plus creepy creatures to operate them. More screaming.
From the hospital, we entered a maze filled with animatronics that flew out at us, startling noises and the occasional blinding light. We stayed the course, maneuvering through giant spiders the size of pumpkins. While I had become somewhat desensitized to the screaming, it didn’t mean I wasn’t looking for an escape route. Turning back wasn’t much of an option. People behind us seemed to be moving as one and clawing my way through the mass of terrified visitors seemed scarier than finishing the journey.
The young children of the misguided parents, who thought a visit to a place called Basement of Death was a good idea, started crying. Did I say crying? It was more like screeching. And I knew how they felt.
The haunted basement hires actors to portray bloodless zombies who have suffered a grizzly death and now wander the earth wielding axes and seeking revenge. Other actors dress as ghosts, goblins and ghouls. I’m not sure the difference between goblins and ghouls, but now was not the time to pull out my smart phone and look it up. The only thing that would make the Basement of Death worse was if there were marionettes, which are second only to clowns on my list of scary creatures.
As we reached the end of the basement maze, I relaxed a little. I thought we had made it to the end of the journey.
I thought wrong.
We were propelled toward a second house and handed blacklight flashlights, which would allow us to experience more terror, but this time in 3-D. When I say terror, I mean it. This house was the abode of evil clowns. Lots and lots of clowns. The live ones remained motionless so we couldn’t tell which ones were props in make-up and which ones were alive until it was too late. They quietly followed us, waiting to sneak up and shorten our lifespan.
The entire event took less than 30 minutes that I’ll never get back. As soon as I got home, I turned on all the lights, and left them on for two weeks. I turned television to Seventies’ sitcoms because if mysterious noises started coming from my basement, I wanted to be able to ignore them.
No more haunted houses for me. I’ll save my money and use it for therapy.
Susan DeLay 