4. Githany
Githany
The choice of adult costumes among haunted-house goers is unsurprisingly repetitive.
Girls in lingerie disguised as animals and princesses.
Guys in plain clothes and scary masks. The occasional group in cartoon onesies.
What happened to the good ol’ days when we all put some actual effort into our costumes?
“This is going to be so much fun!” Amber adjusts her ears. When she found out where we were going, she insisted on joining us. Her costume falls into the slutty animal category in a two-piece tiger ensemble.
Her date is dressed in his college hockey gear and goalie mask.
His name is Andy or Anthony. Or maybe it’s Ansel?
I’m fairly certain it starts with an A. I’ve been referring to him like we’re bros to avoid the uncomfortable “what was your name again?” conversation.
A little “Hey, man,” and “How’s it going, dude?
” have saved me thus far. They’ve been together five months now so I should probably figure it out.
Amber just calls him pet names like “honey bunches” and “babe,” which is not helpful.
I stand in line with the TAPIT crew while Amber’s beau waits for her to use one of the joyous porta-potties outside the attraction.
“Hey, goth girl. What are you supposed to be?” It takes me a minute to realize the guy slurring his words is speaking to me.
Ignoring him is my best bet. I’m not looking to engage in meaningless conversations with drunk bros. It works for a few seconds, but even silence isn’t enough to deter this douche.
“Let’s see.” He tips his Scream mask up. “Green hair and a throat tattoo. You’re the walking embodiment of daddy issues. Did I guess right?”
His friends snicker. He’s not entirely wrong. Childhood trauma gave me these ghostly superpowers. I wouldn’t pin it on my dad, though.
The judgments irritate me enough to bite back. “And your costumes? Let me guess. Do those matching jackets mean you’re active members of the incurable venereal disease club?”
“These are fraternity jackets.” One of them turns to show me the Greek letter patches embroidered on the back.
“Oh, so I was right.”
The leader, evidently, steps forward. “What the fuck did you say?” His attention is pulled toward the entrance as the gates are thrown wide. He gives me one final look before pulling his mask into place. “Goth bitch.”
“Ouch.” I feign a hand over my heart.
Randall and Vic are silent behind me. I get the feeling they were not in the popular crowd in college, or at any point in life. Anyone who prefers chasing ghosts over a career involving the living was probably a loner boner like myself.
“I like your costume,” Vic tells me with a small smile.
I nod, returning the pleasant expression. Randall and Vic are dressed as ghostbusters. I’m not actually wearing a costume. The cropped skeleton sweater, black skirt, and combat boots are all part of my daily attire. They just fit in better on Halloween.
“Are you picking anything up?” Randall asks, pointing his camera my way. We can’t film inside Reaper’s Playroom, but he’s determined to get enough footage for an episode by filming our before and afters.
The wedge-shaped crowd is being funneled through the front gates.
We arrived early enough to get a decent spot in line.
I can already see the massive green demon face that marks the entrance.
Fog pours out of the plywood jaws. Walking through an oversized monster mouth to get inside a haunted house? Epically cheesy.
“It’s hard to tell,” I admit. “There’s a graveyard nearby.”
“Are there ghosts in it?”
I glance to my left. The veil is outrageously thin. Where there should be five to ten ghosts meandering between the headstones, there are actually closer to fifty. Maybe more. Sometimes they blend together.
“Yes.”
Vic tugs on Randall’s sleeve. “Zoom in on the graveyard.”
“I’m filming, but I can’t see anything.” Randall adjusts his camera.
“I wish I could see the ghosts.” Vic sighs wistfully.
People don’t really want to “see dead people.” They just think they do. I’ve seen them for twelve years now. I promise, it’s better without the sight.
I didn’t embrace my medium abilities until I was older.
I tried to confide in my parents a few months after the incident.
They told my doctor. He assured them the sightings were due to a still-healing brain injury.
One sustained when I had a seizure at a summer camp earlier that year.
I was only thirteen. The last thing I remember was screaming my lungs out as the cabin lights flickered.
The next time I woke up, the ghosts were visible.
They’ve been a part of my life ever since.
I still saw them every day. I didn’t tell anyone again for years.
The doctors, my parents, even the TAPIT crew don’t know the whole truth. It’s not the seizure that caused the ghosts to manifest. It’s what gave me the seizure. What sent me running through the woods and into the arms of near death.
The game.
We played with something we shouldn’t have. Maybe we tapped into hell itself. I might never be sure.
My hands were still on the planchette when everything went wrong. It was like some awful gameshow prize. “Ding ding, congratulations! You are the lucky recipient of the ability to see the dead.”
My brain really did suffer some sort of injury. I’ve had more blackouts than I can count. Sometimes they last an hour, sometimes a week. They’re scary as fuck and most definitely something I should have gotten checked out by now.
Part of me worries if they look in my brain to find out what’s causing the blackouts, they might discover my secret.
Can seeing dead people show up on a scan?
They could find something else wrong, something even worse.
A physical cause for the visual disturbances.
What if they find out the truth and lock me up for insanity?
It’s all possible. So I’ve never sought treatment.
All because of a stupid game.
There were fourteen girls in my cabin. I often wish I could go back and ask them what really happened. What did they see in those hours my mind has repressed? Did any of them end up with a freaky new talent? Asking questions, unfortunately, is not an option.
Every last one of them is in the ground.
Animal attacks, unexplained disappearances, mysterious deaths. One by one, everyone present that day fell six feet under. Everyone except me.
I can’t even begin to dissect that morbid bit of information. Survivor’s guilt. Best treated through denial, repression, instant ramen, and Japanese beer.
“What about the haunted house itself? Are you picking up anything from inside?” Randall presses. We’re extremely close to the front. His voice is frantic with the need for more info before we pass through the threshold and he has to stop recording.
I give him the best I can under the polluted circumstances. “There’s definitely something inside.”
The first few rooms are filled with standard scare tactics.
Right off the bat, a red and blue funhouse tunnel steals your balance.
Which means you’re heavily disoriented by the time you spill out into a pitch-black room.
The wispy hanging wires and gauze make you think you’re being touched by phantom fingers.
Some of them are live wires. I’ll admit, the shock as they tap scalps and zap our raised hands takes me by surprise.
Classic, tactile, even a little painful. Not necessarily scary.
A torn curtain with “Turn back now” illuminated by blacklight paint leads to a mad scientist’s laboratory.
Body parts in jars of colorful liquid sit on every surface.
The doctor himself is operating on a patient who’s still very much alive.
They scream from the table, thrashing about while he cuts into their heart.
The acting is subpar, but the fluid flicked all over us smells suspiciously metallic.
I overheard a rumor in line that they use real cow’s blood.
That’s the scariest and grossest part of this room.
While you’re distracted by the violent display, a ghoul jumps out from behind the nearest cabinet. Amber and Vic both scream bloody murder.
Dr. Cow Blood’s lab spills into a much smaller space.
Live bugs scurry along the walls and ceiling of a long and narrow corridor.
This one gives me the chills. Mainly because I can hear the crunching and smush sounds as we trample any insects unlucky enough to end up on the floor.
The smell of crushed bugs brings back memories of cricket swarms in the heat of summer.
That sulfuric, noxious odor is thick in here.
I feel sorry for whoever’s responsible for reset and cleanup.
Do they have like a bug dealer? Someone supplying them with fresh creepy-crawlies each night?
Amber and Vic shriek through the entirety of the corridor. Even I let out a squeak when something drops from the ceiling and onto my shoulder. When I go to swipe it off, its many legs momentarily cling to my fingers. That sensation is enough to make anyone want to puke.
We’re still picking bugs from our hair and clothes when we reach the next room.
A typical graveyard scene. Not nearly as realistic as the one next door.
The fog is thicker here than any of the other spaces.
Someone grabs my ankle. I jump, but don’t scream.
I’m a seasoned psychic who encounters dead people daily.
This shit isn’t enough to truly scare me.
Randall, Amber, and Vic are absolute babies. They scream and run through all of the rooms. Amber’s man-candy, Aiden or whatever, laughs through most of it. The main monster in the graveyard is a retro werewolf wearing a torn flannel. His howls are overly loud to my sensitive ears.
“I will eat your brains.” An animatronic zombie pops up ahead of us, prompting another scream from Amber.