For my tenth birthday, right before Halloween, my brother and I transformed our ordinary house into a majestic creepy palace of horrors.
It was originally my idea. I loved haunted houses, and had been deeply disappointed with the one at my school Halloween carnival. Though the “haunted house” there had cost me money, it had been run by dumb fifth graders. No costumes, no props. Just thirty seconds of kids saying, “Rorrrw.”
Ever since then, I had wanted to create my own haunted house. I knew I could do better. My brother Steve, when he heard about my dream, got into the action.
Seven years older, Steve was creative, and I wanted to be creative too. I loved to write stories – especially scary ones – and draw.
To me, art meant total freedom – no rules at all. I hated structured writing assignments in school. If given a topic I liked, I was happy – but I hated boring topics like, “What did you do over summer vacation?”
I wanted to make things up, not write boring, serious true things. Anyway, following directions ruined the fun. My resistance to them found its way into most all of the things I did. I made up songs on the piano, and even won a talent contest – but never practiced my lessons or bothered to learn the notes.
When doing homework, I yearned for the dreamy outdoors. I played what I liked and wrote what I liked, and drew what I liked. When my brother and I put together the haunted house, nothing appealed to my imagination more.
I came up with scores of creepy ideas and conscripted some of my friends to play scary roles – a gypsy and a Frankenstein. I appointed myself as the guide. I also dug up a cassette tape with scary sounds – screaming, thunder, bat wings fluttering, blood freezing banshee howls.
Meanwhile, Steve did something more incredible: he took an assortment of cheap household materials and converted them into props for our creepy death palace. He even created a magnificent monster to stand at the hall entrance.
For its body he used an old exercise machine – a gimmicky contraption with no real health benefits – by cloaking it with a blanket. He attached a monster mask to the top, and used a tape recorder for its booming, threatening warnings that all who sought to enter should turn back now, or reap terrible consequences.
Steve also adopted the role of directing the cast of ghouls in rehearsals. A boy named Alan was our Frankenstein. He was to stay in the closet at the end of the hall, and when I opened it, Alan was supposed to come out and shock the victim.
On the first try, I opened the door and Alan jumped out in a growling, fist-swinging flurry. I almost laughed. He was not scary at all; he just looked silly.
Steve shook his head; then, he gave an an unusual – and surprising – instruction. “Let\’s try it again,” he said. “Only this time, when she opens the door, don\’t growl. Don\’t chase anyone. Remember: you are dead. Hold your arms out in front of you, like this, and stay quiet. Stare straight ahead. Then walk out the door, slowly.”
Absorbing this, I was suddenly, intensely alert. I sensed that the entire world had just turned on its head. On the second try, Alan acted according to the instructions. The impression was beautifully, hauntingly creepy – and Alan was not even in costume.
I marveled at Steve. He was a creative genius! Who could have thought that would ever work?
After all of the preparation and rehearsing and setting up, we still needed victims. My mother solved the problem for us. She taught a third grade Sunday school class, and invited all of her kids. We were all set for mayhem.
On the day before Halloween, which was my birthday, our haunted house opened to visitors. A gaggle of kids sat in our den, waiting to be taken back for scares.
With the first two kids, I played the reluctant host, saying things like, “Should I really be putting you in danger like this? Oh well, if you really want that.” I led two boys toward our darkened hallway.
They tensed when they saw the guardian “monster” urging them to turn back now – to protect their lives by going home. Bravely, they followed me. They jumped when a sheet “ghost” dangling from the attic pull string grazed their heads – my idea.
The directions Steve had given to Alan soon proved their worth. I led the kids hesitantly to the end of our hall to the closet – and opened it. Alan lumbered out, arms extended in front of him, dead-eyed, moving toward some creepy, unknown destination.
One of the boys tore down the darkened hallway, screaming, and fled back to the entrance, where the lighted den waited.
Happily surprised, I resumed my role; I shook my head in mock resignation. “I guess it was too much for him,” I said. “Do you want to go on?” The kid nodded nervously. “You\’re not scared, are you?”
“I\’m scared,” the boy said with a tremor.
I sighed extravagantly. “Well, if you must go on, follow me.”
The next area was my bedroom. A stuffed scarecrow-like figure sat on a chair against a far wall – but it was only a distraction. To get to it, I had to pass a still figure lying on my bed covered with a blanket.
I made some bland comment about the scarecrow, and as I turned to go, Steve, wearing a rubber devil mask, jumped up from the blanket with a guttural roar – throwing my small guest into a panic, as he screamed and fled.
As I led the other kids through the experience, I was euphoric. The haunted house was a brilliant illusion, a succession of shocks, a profane mockery of death – beautiful.
If only it could have lasted.
After all the third graders had gone through the house of horrors, Steve, who had been directing and keeping everyone on track, threw up his hands and left. Meanwhile, moms dribbled in to collect their kids.
Boredom soon replaced my excitement. Though tired, I was not happy for the night to be over. Neither were my friends. “I know,” someone said brightly. “Why don\’t we scare the moms too?” A chorus of agreement followed – and I was thrilled to continue too.
A bit nervous about guiding an adult, I led one of the mothers toward our entrance monster. I could not waitto show her what we had done. But as soon as I entered the hallway, I knew something terribly wrong.
Thumps and a patter of footsteps – and suddenly, a fist swinging mob of “monsters” encircled the amused mom. Everyone had dropped out of their roles. Alan was the worst of all. He growled absurdly and punched his fists at the air. All of my friends did the same; they grimaced and bared their teeth like feral children – as the mom giggled.
I soon gave up trying to lead anyone through the chaos. I was far too embarrassed to even try. The other moms guiding themselves through our hall also giggled, and I thought it was at our stupidity. I wanted to go to my room, but when I did, I remembered it was part of our show – no escape.
“What are you doing?” my best friend, the gypsy, said. “Why aren\’t you trying to scare anyone? Come on. Let\’s get under your bed. We can grab at their feet.”
Crawling under the bed appealed to me – but for entirely different reasons. Under the bed, I buried my burning face in my hands. I wanted to either cry or hit someone. I had taken pride in having a creative, fun haunted house – not like the awful one at my school. “Rowrrr,” my friend beside me said.
The majesty, the splendor of my creepy death palace – all gone. Fallen into a heap of useless rubble to be laughed at by condescending parents. Defeated my a gaggle of dumb kids. The ecstasy of illusion – shattered.
I could still hear the howls and stampeding kids in the hall. Go home, I wanted to scream. You\’re not scary – just stupid!
It was horrifying – more horrifying than the devil mask, or the Frankenstein walk, or any ghoul could ever be.
I endured almost the entire rest of the night under the bed, until everyone went home. When I crawled out, I stared at my sad, stuffed scarecrow – now toppled. My beliefs about being creative had toppled too.
Gone was all of my contempt for order and direction. Being creative was something more than a series of spastic, random movements – more than swinging fists and growling. I knew, too, that my misery was based on the success of what had gone on before – and in that, I found hope.
A secret had been made clear, although I was not yet sure what to do with it.
Because of restraint, and purpose, I had witnessed something sublimely horrible – had seen the beauty and majesty and opulence of perfect fear.
And it all rested, beautifully, inside my head, on a single image that I would remember forever – of Alan lumbering silently from our closet, Frankenstein to the life, arms extended, dead eyed – staring straight ahead.