Much as I enjoy a good scary movie or Stephen King book, it’s been nearly 30 years since I willingly paid for the privilege of having fake monsters jump at me from out of the dark.

I was one of those kids who loved all things scary. Chiller Theater. Twilight Zone. Campfire stories. Tales from the Crypt. And I was also one of those kids whose bedtime ritual included wearing a cross necklace, checking under the bed, and making certain the closet doors were closed tight (before sneaking in to sleep with her parents).

Until I was a teenager, the only haunted houses I’d visited were the school carnival kind with bowls of worms (spaghetti noodles) and eyeballs (peeled grapes) and a vampire with glow-in-the-dark plastic teeth and shoe-polished hair. And so, as a high schooler whose date wanted to visit a haunted house a local radio station was hosting, I happily agreed, expecting it to be cheesy, but fun. 

Instead, it was an experiment in personal bladder control.

One that was just barely successful.

Somewhere close to the exit in that long-ago haunted house was a section of hallway with a false wall. Behind said wall, low to the ground, were a couple of guys laying in wait for ankles to approach that they could grab. I provided such ankles. And oh so very nearly dampened those hands. 

It was my last haunted house. 

Until last weekend, when my daughter Celeste’s friend, Madison Suppa, convinced me a haunted trail would be an enjoyable way to spend our Saturday night.

Disparate from the childhood version of me, Celeste does not much like scary things.  But Madi does. And somehow, Madi made being scared sound appealing and fun.

It had been dark for about an hour when we arrived at the trail to wait our turn in line. We shivered in the cold as we watched groups of about a dozen at a time head off into the woods with their lantern-toting guides, listened to the distant screams, gunshots and chainsaws, until it was time for our group to go. We were the last three in line, directly behind a teenager who was one of the guides.

Madi, a veteran of haunted trails and houses, was unimpressed by the creatures jumping out of the woods, and Celeste grew more and more bold as we made our way down the path. As for me–I was surprisingly calm and confident, having emptied my bladder before starting our walk. Still, I was anxious about my ankles. I knew if they were touched, all would be lost, that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from stomping violently and repeatedly on whatever made contact with my skin.

And so it was with a mind preoccupied with personal ankle security that we rounded a bend and found ourselves in the midst of a group of screaming, chainsaw-wielding, mask-wearing boys. It wasn’t frightening so much as it was painfully loud, and as we hurried past, the guide who had been directly in front of us paused to say something to one of the guys. She was only gone a few moments, but in the commotion, she lost her place in line to another teenage girl of similar build.

And as we (and the other teenage girl of similar build) soon learned, the guide had that specific place in line for a reason. 

Along that next straight stretch, two masked werewolves were hiding, and when they spotted their mark, they pounced, knocking her to the ground as one fake-stabbed her and the other gnawed at her legs. 

“Stop! You’ve got the wrong person!” our guide yelled. 

I doubt a silver bullet would’ve worked faster. The werewolves immediately stopped their assault and apologized profusely as they helped their good-natured victim to her feet. She was shaken, but laughing. And impressively dry. 

But if she’s anything like that ankle-obsessed woman behind her on that trail, it’ll take about 30 years before she goes there again.          

This entry was posted on Friday, October 24th, 2008 at 3:11 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.