4. Githany #2
We’re two thirds of the way through the room when a burst of dark energy slams into me.
My steps wobble. Something just happened.
Something bad and too close for comfort.
My companions remain unaware. There are so many screams from the surrounding rooms, I can’t tell which is fake, fun, or true fear.
It hits me all of a sudden that whatever is hiding in here amongst the false scares and phony actors is something ancient, evil, and real.
I have underestimated this place.
They say there’s a blinding white light when you go to heaven. Maybe you’re giving up sight for something more. Eyes are just so “human earth plane” anyways. Way too soft and fragile for something so important.
Which is the strange thought spinning through my mind as a retina-searing brightness steals my vision.
The hokey haunted-house music and my companions’ screams have stopped. My eyes are slow to adjust to the room. We’re still in the faux graveyard. They’ve turned on the lights.
“I will eat your brains.”
Vic screams as the animatronic zombie cues up, his automatic timer clearly wired separately from the ceiling lights.
“Everyone please stay where you are.”
My still-blurred vision lands on a lanky boy wearing a jack-o’-lantern mask. He continues, “Listen up everyone. We’ve been slightly delayed. For your safety, please remain where you are. As soon as the lights turn off, you may resume your journey through Reaper’s Playroom.”
Rapidly blinking the white dots away helps to bring things into focus.
The haunted house is far less sinister with the lights on.
The dead still congregate here. They can’t help it.
Many are tied to their resting places, and the cemetery is mere feet away from this haunt-for-hire attraction.
It’s an insult to those who are supposed to be resting in peace, without the strobe lights and fake fog casting over crumbling headstones.
The graveyard we’re standing in is littered with Styrofoam tombstones and artificial flowers.
Most have “RIP” carved into them. A few random oversized crosses and barely discernable angels sit scattered between the mounds of dirt.
Massive furry spiders with red plastic eyes stretch across the space.
Several of their legs have fallen off. I guess no one is counting when they’re sprinting past the menacing figures in the dark.
This place could definitely use an update.
“What happened?” Amber asks. “Why’d they turn on the lights?”
My heart is still hammering from the shockwave of darkness that plunged through my system a few seconds before they stopped us.
“Technical difficulties.”
Liar. The worker shifts his weight. Aimlessly scratching at his arm.
There’s power in controlling or creating fear in others.
I’m sure the scare actors experience their own thrill pulling screams from eager crowds.
Wearing a mask helps. Perceived anonymity does something to our inhibitions.
Having to stare at their cheesy workroom and meet strangers’ eyes under the fluorescents must be awkward to say the least. Real fear shouldn’t come from this building or its props.
The source of the thing emitting the evil that’s pressing in around me like a suffocating mist is another story.
“I will eat your brains.” The zombie pops up again.
Vic squeaks. “Can you turn that off?”
“It’s on a timer.” The worker shrugs.
“What’s in the next room?” My question is meant to sound nonchalant, but comes out a little strained.
“It’s a surprise,” the worker answers.
I’m antsy as hell. My mind flits through all the possibilities. Is it a poltergeist of the room? A possession of one of the actors? Did they build on top of a malevolent spirit’s grave? Or is one of their spooky decorations a haunted piece?
An annoying amount of time passes. The others chitchat. I’m stuck in my own mind, mulling over the possible horrors of the next space. The lights turn back off while I’m toeing a disemboweled foam corpse with my boot.
It’s even harder to adjust to the darkness now that we’ve been standing beneath the bright lights.
A round of cheers echoes from the other rooms as we’re immersed in Reaper’s Playroom once more.
Our group tightens formation and I end up on the end, again. The curtain to the next room is partially drawn back. Vintage music drowns out one last “I will eat your brains” from the zombie as we pass beneath the thick black fabric.
The werewolf’s howling gives way to carnival tunes.
The new theme is evident. A clown room. We pass straight through the gyrating jaws of a laughing clown’s face that takes up the entirety of the wall.
His animatronic eyes roll as we step onto his tongue and into the spinning tunnel beyond.
Neon orange cuts through the darkness. Another funhouse tunnel. Cheap trick.
I’m walking straight ahead, yet still I keep crashing into the platform bridge railing. You would think knowing the trick would help you avoid succumbing to it.
The others are laughing by the time we stumble out and into the main room.
Our senses are assaulted by hot pink, lime green, neon yellow, and blinding orange.
The clown room is an eyeball’s nightmare.
All blacklight paint and geometric shapes.
Colorful boxes are stacked to the ceiling and back.
Some open with figures popping out of the tops.
Between the rows and stacks stand dozens of clowns.
Mannequins are so creepy. This is obviously a jump-scare room. Even with the vibrant painted patterns, it’s so dark in here that we can’t differentiate the mannequins from the scare actors.
This room smells like cleaning supplies. Is that why they turned the lights on? Had to clean up some scared girl’s pee? I hope it was pee. Surely no one actually shits their pants at these places. I shift my gaze to the floor, making sure to avoid any suspicious-looking substances.
Our path leads us to a narrow corridor with neon hands lining the walls.
Strobe lights and close speakers further disorient us.
With this type of scare, some of the wiggling fingers are real.
The doors on either end of the corridor slam shut as the strobe dies out.
It’s impossible to see when the hands start grabbing.
The screaming of my companions is even louder than the creepy tunes still blasting in our ears.
Someone shoves into me. Another body bumps past. The darkness has plunged our group into chaos.
Moving as close to the wall as I can, I wait for the door to reopen. They won’t keep us in here forever. Running back and forth is just asking to beef it and bust up your face.
A few seconds later the strobes come back on. The exit pops open. We book it past the still-flexing fingers and into the next hallway of the carnival room. Clowns armed with knives slash down from the walls. We duck, running as low to the ground as we can until we emerge in a more open space.
A pale hand wraps around my wrist. For the first time all night, I cry out.
Flashes of my night in the camp bang into my mind.
Young faces, flickering lights, so many screams…
It’s not one of the glow-in-the-dark hands.
I peer over. A young girl in a torn nightgown stares at me, eyes wide.
Even without the obvious translucency of her body, I would have known she’s not a scare actor. She’s not alive.
But the dead rarely make physical contact.
“What did you do?” she whispers. Blood trickles down the corner of her mouth. She flicks her frightened eyes toward her feet and back up again before shaking her head violently.
I can’t remember the last time I was touched so directly. It’s rare for any spirit to have the power to do more than ghost a fingertip across the back of your neck.
“Let go.” I adopt the firm tone I’ve used for years when dealing with unruly undead. She may look like a child, but that doesn’t mean she truly is one. Taking the form of a child is an easy way for dark entities to manipulate others.
Her grips tightens. My wrist turns frigid. Again she shifts her gaze to herself and shakes her head wildly. My skin is crawling where her icy hand has hold of me.
“Remove your”—jerking my arm away works—“hand.”
The girl disappears like mist in the breeze. She must have used up all her energy to make contact. I whirl back, stumbling to catch up with my group. Another intense shot of evil matching the one from earlier slices through my stomach.
Whatever it is, it’s here, in this room.
A clown drops into my path. Physically drops. As if he were hiding in the fucking rafters.
These scare actors are really out here doing the most. His look is more creative than the usual wild-haired, squeaky-shoed, Pennywise getup.
Instead of the classic red nose, his is lime green.
Hot-pink Xs mark his eyes. The same shade of pink rims a mouth stretched so wide it nearly meets his temples.
Teeth more akin to a shark than a psycho sit layered from corner to corner.
The mask only covers the front of his face. A buzzed, lime-green Mohawk bisects the top of his head. The neon hair glows beneath the blacklight, contrasting sharply against his rich brown skin.
The green harness strapped tightly across his smooth chest catches my eye for a second too long. Aside from that, he’s shirtless. Shirtless and ripped.
A slutty clown. I’d roll my eyes at how cliche it is if they weren’t glued to his obscenely muscular abdomen.
Green paint is smeared across the side of his stomach.
The paint disappears beneath a pair of pink and green polka-dotted pants that hang low enough to reveal a trail of green hair that disappears beneath the waistband.
He dyed his happy trail? I swear if this guy drops his drawers and busts out green pubes…
“Githany!” Amber calls out to me from the doorway. They’ve made it to the end of the room.