haunted houses | Oh Honestly, Erin

Haunted House Round Up, Part 2

Nov 252011

I love when I split entries into parts and then wait over a week to finish it. That doesn’t fuck with the flow at all. It has taken me approximately two weeks to bang this out and I don’t care about typos at this point.

TerrorTown
I always get a little skeptical when new haunted houses pop up in the city. Oftentimes they end up being huge, overpriced, crowded clusterfucks that become nothing more than a bad memory after one season.

However, the idea of it being located in a basement with known paranormal activity in the Strip District did wonders to sway me. Laura and I got there as soon as it opened, and played it safe by choosing a Sunday night. As I suspected, there were very few people in line, but technical difficulties prevented us from entering the building until well after 7:00.

Once inside, we were immediately ushered downstairs into the basement of a very cold, industrial space which at one time housed a grocery store. We paid our way in and then wended through the rope-lined queue where we wound up standing in anticipation for another 20-30 minutes. The waiting area alone had us creeped out: it was illuminated in corners with red lights and a soundtrack of metal scraping and gears grinding loudly drowned out the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake which was playing on a screen at the front of the line.

Unlike Cheeseman’s, no one wanted to talk to us in this line. In fact, the young couple behind us kept no less than five feet between us at all times. I was kind of offended. But mostly relieved. When we got to the front of the line, however, the lady working the door gave us the 411 on the history of the space, which for real has been proven to be haunted. There used to be a paintball place on one of the upper floors of the building, and employees had reported sightings. The door lady told us that the actors of TerrorTown had been seeing a 10-year-old boy who had died down there years ago.

When it was finally our turn, we were sent inside the doors with the young couple in front of us, where we were then sequestered in a room and berated by a crazy-eyed funeral director. He let the couple go and made Laura and me stay for some more ear-beatings and I thought I was going to have a stroke. We were then given permission to leave, but she and I were on our own after that and it was fucking scary. I kept imagining in my head that I was going to see that 10-year-old boy ghost and wind up spending the rest of my days in a rocking chair, listening to Katy Perry.

I almost don’t want to write about TerrorTown because I know in my heart my words will never do it justice. I go to a lot of haunted houses. The majority of them are hit or miss. But this one was near-perfection. It was literally like taking a schizophrenic tour through the underbelly of Pittsburgh, where the resident bottom feeders were free to antagonize us and scream in our faces. There was a contortionist dressed as a babydoll in a room that was essentially a landfill of flea market toys; there was a clown hanging out in a living room with Christmas lights (the thick bulbs that I love!) strewn haphazardly and stacks of static-screened TVs lighting up one wall.

It was like walking through the inside of my head and Laura often had to pull me out of each room because I couldn’t stop looking around all wide-eyed and whispering, “Whoa.” It was a creepy picture-taker’s wet dream, OK?

Numerous times we were taken off guard, nothing was predictable. The scares were intense, there were lots of moments that even left us laughing, and those actors were fucking legit. This was one of those places that didn’t need to rely on a chainsaw guy to evoke pee dribbles.

$17 and well worth it. They held us hostage in their twisted underworld of degenerates for at least 30 minutes and it was just a real visual feast. Well executed, scary, fun and I hope it returns next year!

Demon House

Regardless of the haunted house, this night was exciting because it was the first time my brother Corey, my sister Amy, and me were all together. Kind of a long story, but my mom had given Amy up for adoption when she was born and then found her again in 1998 I think it was. I never met her back then, but Corey did. Then Amy found me on her own two years ago and I’m glad she did because she’s an awesome sister and not like our mom at all. (Lucky for her!) Anyway, we all brought our respective date-people with us and it was a grand ol’ time. (Henry was a game time decision.)

As we were walking to the ticket booth, I was filling in Amy and her boyfriend Dick about what they could expect from this particular haunt.

“And the best part is, they give your group a number and then you’re free to mill about or sit by a bonfire, so there are no lines to wait in…” I said on my know-it-all tone right before we stopped to STAND IN A LINE to buy our tickets. “…except for this line we’re waiting in.”

Because I’m used to being a sort of conversation conductor, I urged Corey to tell Amy about his latest bout with color blinded. I wasn’t even finished suggesting it when he and his girlfriend Danielle began to laugh and shared knowing smirks.

“We were taking bets on how long it would take you to bring that up,” Danielle laughed, I guess because I’m OBSESSED with this story.

Then we got to hang out by a fire while we waited for our number to be called, and I was harrassed by a man wearing a burlap sack over his head. I kind of had a crush on him. It was his heavy breathing that did it for me.

Demon House was decent this year however I was a little angry at one point during the first leg, which is outside and built to mimic a mine shaft. One of the miners was pretty rude and normally that’s part of the schtick, but this guy I think was just rude in real life. He yelled at me for standing too close but I didn’t know where else to go and then I pouted about that for awhile.

Before we got to the actual house, there was a chainsaw guy. I didn’t actually see him, but I heard him and that was enough to send me sprinting ahead of the pack. I made it to the front door of the house and then had to wait alone while the rest of my group calmly walked up the path like sane people.

When Demon House first started about six years ago, I thought their resemblance to Castle Blood was uncanny. I have since learned that it was no coincidence, that they were literally sending people to Castle Blood with video cameras and more or less doing everything in their power to ruin Castle Blood. They have since abandoned the interactive portion of the experience that they so desperately wanted to do better than Castle Blood, and I did have a decent time within the walls (the decor is really good and there are some creepy moments) but knowing what I know now, I won’t be giving them my money in the future.

But the important thing is that I got to hang with my sibs. And we got ride a short bus to and from the parking lot!

Screams

This piece of shit bullshit of a haunt is the biggest waste of money. Last year it was called Hobb’s Manor. So basically they changed the name to trick poor assholes into spending $12 to be completely underwhelmed by a bunch of indifferent teenagers in masks. Also, Laura and I spent longer than it took us to walk through sitting in my car just waiting for the assholes to get their shit together and open the doors.

After that, it took us approximately 10 minutes to walk, not run, through.

And then right outside the exit door, the chainsaw dick made me slip and fall in the muddy lawn.

I was displeased. We should have just went back to TerrorTown. I’m adding these assholes to the Blacklist with Demon House and Scarehouse, which is the haunt that made me start the Blacklist in the first place.

Dormont Dungeon
After getting ripped off at Screams, Laura and I came back to my hood and spent $5 to walk through a tennis court covered with black tarp and garbage bags ad inhabited by a bunch of middle school kids who put more moxie and vigor in their performance than any of those apathetic teens sullying the name of haunted houses.

I was especially enchanted with the little chainsaw boy who chased us through a laundry-line strung tennis court at the end. Laura and I were laughing so hard we were crying.

And THAT is the sign of a fun haunted house.

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Haunted House Round-Up, part 1

haunted houses

Nov 042011

I still have one more Halloween party to go to tomorrow night, therefore it is still acceptable to be writing about Halloweenish things on this here blog. Also, some people (my friend/haunted house companion Laura) would cry if I didn’t write about certain haunted houses from this season. And by doing so, I’m hoping that it will seduce some people (Laura) to comment.

Hundred Acres Manor

Gosh, thank god this one happened to open the same weekend Andrea was visiting from California. She had never gone to a haunted house before because she was under the impression that the “monsters” inside these things are allowed to touch people, and she is a HUGE germ freak. Plus, she would have rathered stay at my house and watch Lil’ Wayne videos on On Demand all night, but I made her see the light by doing a lot of whining and flashing my puppy-eyes, which have no effect on Henry anymore but always manage to arrest the will of newer people in my life.

In line for the Manor, Andrea got a Super Gulp of Pittsburghese, thanks to the Steelers-emblemed assholes behind us. I was actually kind of embarrassed by them and their careless, flagrant slinging of the word “yinz” and “jagoff.”

Luckily, we got to go inside the Manor without them, but they managed to catch up to us in one of the rooms, at which point we got to witness one of the girls say, “This is just like being in horror movie” except that she kept pronouncing it “whore” movie and Andrea and I were like YOU GOT THAT RIGHT.

Then a candlestick flung itself off a fireplace mantel and hit Andrea in the ribcage.

But at least it wasn’t a person touching her. (I wanted her to sue, but she rubbed her WWL’WD bracelet and said, “Nah, I’d rather just make it rain.”)

She claims she wasn’t scared, yet you should have seen her jump when we were inside the maze and a RANDOM MAN (not even a monster) rounded a corner and caught her off guard. It was the only time she screamed.

Me? Oh, I was fine. My usual valiant self. Until we arrived at the entrance of the maze and I could hear the chainsaw over yonder. I clung to Andrea and started doing this weird hunched-over side-step that I find myself resorting to every time I’m trying to creep around undetected by a chainsaw-wielder. But then, in addition to hearing that sickening mechanical whir, I began to smell the fumes, so I knew we were pee-stepping in the same direction as him and I just COULD NOT HANDLE IT so I started to run blindly, slamming into dead-ends, snagging Andrea’s purple granny-cardigan with one of my obnoxiously large and dangerous rings, until I rounded a corner and found myself face-to-face with him WITH NOWHERE TO GO BUT A FUCKING DEAD END. The exertion of my screaming combined with my heart slamming against my ribs nearly made me pass out until eventually I wasn’t able to scream at all, just wheeze and flail hysterically like an asthymatic teenager in a Little Red Riding Hood costume being chased around a barn at a Michael Myers-crashed Halloween party.

It was a really bad scene.

Chainsaw Guy eventually let me skirt past him, at which point I left Andrea and ran so fast that I somehow managed to find the exit without using my iPhone compass.

Walking back to the car afterward, I said to Andrea, “Um, that chainsaw wasn’t even on, was it?” And then she was like, “Oh my god, you’re right – it wasn’t. He was just holding it quietly at his side and you were crying like a little pussy.”

On the way home, I put on some Lil’ Wayne so Andrea could get her fix.

“That was fun,” she admitted, “but it was no afternoon at Planned Parenthood with Lil’ Wayne, that’s for sure.”

She really likes Lil’ Wayne.

Castle Blood

See here & here.

Cheeseman’s Fright Farm

This was my first haunted house with Laura! Do you know how hard it can be when you’re a 32-year-old “grown-up” to find other “grown-ups” to want to spend money on this shit? Not really all that hard, but still. I even made a Jonny Craig-centric mix CD for to brainwash Laura on the traffic-riddled drive out to Scary Farmland, PA.

The hayride was a little disappointing this year, although Laura’s thigh was nearly cauterized by a too-close chainsaw, and there were definitely some laughable moments. But there was no simulated humping between me and any Jason-wannabes, so that was kind of a downer.

The walk-thru part was entertaining as always though. Getting harassed and snarled at when you’re blindly combing your way through fog- and strobe light-filled corn maze is $12 well spent.

Plus, we got to pet some snakes. And I’m not talking about when I encountered Michael Myers in line and tried to shove my hand down his pants.

Real snakes!

But the scariest part was when we first arrived and staked out our spot in line.

“Just so you know, I’m holding this spot for like 10 more people,” a petite, older blond lady turned around and said.

Laura and I basically emitted sounds of ambivalence, because really — there was already a group of about 40 middle school kids in front of us, what the fuck is 10 more people at that point.

But instead of turning back around, she proceeded to talk to us for the next 30 minutes.

Here are things we learned:

She lives in a ranch house in the middle of nowhere, but as soon as her divorce is over, she is moving the fuck back to the city
Her son, who pays for her cell phone bill and why shouldn’t he — he’s a pharmacist, after all — has lived in a myriad of places in and around Pittsburgh since leaving home and I can name each and every place.
She is a student at some college somewhere
One of her classmates told her on the first day of class that he really likes blonds, then followed her to a bar afterward and put something in her drink, and she knows this because when she drank from it, she felt something go down her throat, so what did she do next? OH, SHE LEFT THE BAR AND DROVE HOME. But don’t worry, she’s a seasoned drunk so she knew what she was doing. (This is where I interject that she actually came off as being a semi-classy broad until THIS factoid gushed from her lips.)
She is still in a class with her would-be rapist.
One of the people she was waiting for was her soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law, Bill, and I SUSPECT THERE COULD BE AN AFFAIR going on there. But that’s just me being a speculating sleuth.

She got elbowed pretty hard in the head at one point by one of the middle school boys in front of her, who profusely apologized and swore that he didn’t see her, and I had to bite the knuckle of my thumb to keep from laughing. She was so angry that it happened, as evidenced by the scowl she flashed us.

Anyway, her posse eventually arrived, thank god. “That’s them!” she shouted to us, pointing to them and waving wildly. They slinked into line with her and I waited for her to introduce us, but she never did. I couldn’t even fucking believe it. Not even to Bill, who was wearing a blue flannel similar to Henry’s signature lumberjack uniform and sort of made me yearn for him which I mistakenly admitted to Laura, who threatened to out my mushy moment on Facebook and I wailed, “No don’t!” and suddenly had a deja vu moment of my “friends” bluffing about showing my 8th grade crush — Scott Dambaugh — the photo of him that they had blown up to an 8×10 for me at the pinnacle of my obsession.

Then, after talking about it for 30 minutes, Laura ran off to buy cotton candy, which came spun on a plastic stick that lit up and appeared to be a glowing pink nipple sticking out of the cotton’s crown. She kept jabbing it at me.

First I have to hear about this stranger almost getting dape-raped by a classmate half her age, and now this?

Our line friend never spoke to us again, which was fine by me, because her friends came equipt with flasks and crass language and I liked them way better than her anyway.

[FYI: I just wrote this at work while feeling like I'm on speed. Sorry if there are typos, but I need to go now and run repeatedly into a wall a few times. Then suck on some Fun Dip.]

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Castle Blood: The Return of Chooch

chooch, haunted houses, holidays, Uncategorized

Nov 012011

The last time we took Chooch to Castle Blood’s daylight matinee, he was three-years-old; The Lost Boys was still his favorite movie; he was super-enchanted by one Jason Voorhees; and we still spontaneously flinched every time he opened his mouth in public, praying the word “Asshole” (or worse) wouldn’t come rolling out. He spent the whole goddamn tour of the castle bitching about Dracula’s absence.

The denizens had been waiting for Chooch and his silver-tongue to return and we finally had a chance to take him last Sunday. This was my friend Laura’s first October in Pittsburgh so I insisted that she come along because everyone needs to experience the Castle, even if it’s in daylight. Chooch never STFU once during the 40-minute car ride, and guess who was in the back with him? HIS WEARY MOTHER. We eventually joined “Are we there yet?” forces and Henry wanted to blow his brains out. He’s the only one who hates me sitting in the backseat more than me.

When we arrived, some of the denizens were milling about and suddenly it was all, “Chooch! Is that you? Chooch is here!” and he took a giant step behind my back because I guess he thought I was joking when I told him that they were all waiting for him. Normally he handles attention with way more panache than me (I go through life hiding behind Henry’s back like a kicked puppy), but I think the costumes were throwing him off. One minute we were just walking down a sidewalk in a quiet town and then bam—there’s a bunch of dead people in gowns with the facade of a castle behind them.

We got in line after formally introducing Chooch to everyone, and he was sort of starting to get that smart-ass Chooch attitude back while being asked questions by the denizen guarding the entrance, like he was so put out and exhausted having to talk to someone and he kept turning away from her but then I realized he was blushing through his zombie flesh-wounds, most likely because he was trying not to look at her boobs.

Uncle Vlad soon appeared on the front steps and we were sent in with the family of four behind us, the parents of whom I had originally used my Ph.d. in Debasement to prejudge because the dad had a mullet and the mom appeared to be blitzed off Benadryl, but they ended up being pretty inoffensive, plus they had two little girls whose presence alone was enough to hold Chooch’s tongue through the entire tour.

That and the bountiful corsets of the female denizens. I finally found my son’s Kryptonite and it’s the same as every other boy in the world.

He walked through the entire Castle looking nervous and blubber-ready anytime he was spoken to, but this didn’t stop him from nearly knocking a bitch down anytime a candy bowl was presented.

Meanwhile, the mulletted dad would laugh and look to me for some sort of approval every time one of his little girls would say something that was mildly funny but not enough to have Bill Cosby come calling. The mom was always trailing behind with her eyes mostly-closed, laughing to herself and trying TO BOND WITH ME. Clearly my “Don’t even!” exterior is softening because strangers are trying to penetrate my anti-social bubble more and more. Sometimes EVERYDAY.

I need to start practicing that snarl some more.

Oh goodie, the Gypsy Room! There are these beautiful strands of beads that fill the doorway into the Gypsy Room and on that day, I learned that not only are they beautiful, but sharp as fuck thanks to HENRY whipping one at me. One of the half moons or stars, I don’t know which but it was something with SPIKES AND THORNS ON IT, punched me in the lip in such a way that tears spontaneously sprung to my eyes it felt like my top lip had been triple-shot with Botox.

Of course, I couldn’t bitch about it to Henry right away because I didn’t want to interrupt the Gypsy and get a talking-to from our (extremely intimidating) guide, so I sulked in the back and periodically checked with my tongue for blood. But you better believe as soon as we walked out of that room, I gripped Henry’s arm and yelled at him the best I could without raising my voice above a strained hiss. If it had been bleeding, I would have sued his broke ass for a hard copy of his entire SERVICE history because I know he did it on purpose.

Meanwhile, the mom of the two girls in our group kept slurring for me to go on ahead of her, probably because she needed privacy to huff beneath a gargoryl.

In the pirate room, Henry was volunteered by our guide to get up in there and show his bravery, which made me snort to myself because unless bravery involves reading Food Magazine and having a foot run over by a pallet jack with no retaliation, Henry had no business being up there.

But on the bright side, it helped him realize he has a pirate fetish.

After the tour, we hung around outside and talked to our new friends while I tried to appear as socially together as possible but inside my head I was screaming, “MY HANDS! WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY HANDS!?” I ended up just keeping them inside my hoodie pockets.

Someone mentioned that Chooch was way quieter than they imagined; Henry and I, nearly in tandem, said, “It’s because there are girls around.” Even Laura seemed surprised at how docile he had become.

This was all the knowledge of my son that Professor Scrye and Lady Die’s little girl needed to know before chasing him around and antagonizing him with little else but her femininity. At one point, I think he was trying to dive into a garbage can.

The good thing about Chooch’s voice being smothered by estrogen was that he actually paid attention in there and took something away other than candy for the first time. Granted, he was still too young the other times we took him to really grasp the concept. I think 5 is the perfect age for a trip to Castle Blood. 5 and surrounded by little girls.

“I thought those little girls on the tour with us had makeup on, but then I realized they were just dirty,” Henry laughed like we’re so much better than them, I guess forgetting that people probably say that about our kid, too. Yesterday I unknowingly sent him to school with half of his head still caked in fake blood and he usually has last night’s meal hugging the corners of his mouth. My eyes don’t start properly seeing until at least noon, OK?

Chooch ate his whole bag of candy on the way home without me knowing (and by that I mean I wasn’t paying attention) and then caused a scene inside the gas station, making everyone in there believe that he earned his facial bruises and contusions.

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Haunted House History

haunted houses, nostalgia, Obsessions

Oct 162011

I don’t really remember how it started. I know it was 1995 and something that my mom and I liked to do together, back when we actually liked each other and were able to get along for longer than one half hour at a time. We would get the weekend newspaper and scour it for haunted house ads, mapping out all the ones that were close enough in proximity to ensure we could fit in at least two a night.

It was a sickness. Some of my friends caught the bug from my mom and me and soon we were salivating for weekends in October, piling seven or eight people in Lisa’s minivan and driving down dark country roads to farm fields where we would scream like motherfuckers in the chainsaw guy’s face and horror-flirt with Michael Myers, not letting ourselves believe that it was really some Clearasil commercial douchebag in a cheap K-mart mask. It was an opportunity to play scared, helpless victim around boys I had crushes on and to be one of those obnoxious teens in lines that I want to punch in the face now that I’m a “grown-up” with a low patience threshold.

Fighting with Keri over Jason Voorhees outside of Terrordome (she won and ended up taking him to our high school’s Christmas dance that year, but he ended up being a real motherfucker, so I guess I won after all); peeing my pants inside the claustrophobic fog-machine-stenched halls of Victory’s Haunted School and scream-singing Superdrag’s “Sucked Out” with Lisa in order to be let out of one of the rooms; wrecking into the chainsaw guy’s car at that same haunted house years later and sometimes literally wondering, “OMFG WHAT IF THIS IS REAL & I’M GOING TO DIE TONIGHT?” while having some strange man snarl in my ear and coat my neck with his warm, sleazy breath: These are all some of my favorite memories and why, even as an adult, my stomach does little flip-flops every October. That adrenaline rush of being someone’s horror movie prey for 30 minutes a night and the release of tension when it’s over is what makes me continue to fork over money to this crazy industry year after year. (Though there are some that I refuse to go to because they’re over-hyped and just not good. Keep your animatronics and give me all the old-fashioned garbage bag-curtained VFW haunted halls; it’s the simple things that scare me.)

It started with a scrapbook of sorts, just a regular notebook into which I modpodged ticket stubs, newspaper ads and other haunt memorabilia. (Like a penny I found at the now-defunct Castle Shannon Haunted School. Who keeps shit like that? A future hoarder, that’s who.)

That same year—1995—I was in a writing class in high school and we had to keep journals which would be turned in to the teacher weekly. I would basically write about shit that I did, just as I still do, but when my mom and I went to the Terrordome that October with my best friend Christy and I wrote about it, my teacher particularly loved that entry because haunted houses were something she was scared of, so scared that she refused to go to any. She wrote in the margins of my journal that she enjoyed reading about it because it was her way of being there without having to leave her house. Around that same time, I realized that as much as she liked reading it, I loved writing it. So the following year, even though I was no longer in her class anymore, I continued writing about every haunted house in that same journal until I ran out of room and my friend Angie bought me a new journal.

I still keep hand-written haunted house journals which is why I don’t often write about it over here on my blog; in fact, I’m almost out of room in the Goosebumps journal I’ve been using. There are so many stories (literally tomes-full!) and photos that I should probably start sharing them on here, too; maybe start a series if anyone is interested in it.

Someday, Chooch will be old enough to do this shit with me and I just honestly can’t wait. Because when I think back on my early haunted house experiences, it makes me remember how awesome my mom used to be. I wish this was still “our thing.”

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Serendipitous Facebook Friendings & Castle Blood

haunted houses, Obsessions, where i try to act social

Oct 152011

Usually, if someone suggests to me that I add one of their friends on Facebook, I decline the invitation. Especially if I’ve never met the person, because I have been trying very hard lately to not be a creep. (And it’s not really working out very well, thanks for asking.)

But last year, when my friend Erica was visiting Pittsburgh she suggested to me over lunch that I look up her friend Rick on Facebook because he’s also from the area and big into haunted houses. She mentioned that he used to run his own home haunt called the Haunted Chamber and I recognized the name immediately. I had never gone to it, but definitely remembered seeing ads for it every year.

Figuring Erica wouldn’t lead me astray, I looked him up a few days later, sent him a friend request along with a message explaining why some random broad in his city was wanting to be his friend. He accepted, but we never really interacted very much. Chiming in on a stranger’s status updates can be awkward, especially when it’s me doing the chiming.

Months later, he sent me a really wonderful message. I will never forget it, because it was when Henry and I were in Cleveland and I was sitting on the bed in our hotel room checking my email before the AP Tour show that night. Rick was writing to me about my blog, which is the one thing I always get down on myself about, and his words were just so encouraging and supportive. I sat there crying while I read it and was just really touched by how nice and honest this perfect stranger was being to me. Plus, it broke the ice.

A few weeks ago, we met for lunch and spent the next 2+ hours talking about his history with working haunted houses, my history with going to haunted houses, and I quickly realized that Erica was right — I had a ton of stuff in common with this guy and he is easily one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure of encountering.

He’s friends with the people who run Castle Blood and invited Henry and I to meet him and his wife Tammy out there last Saturday. So with stomachs full of 80 different varieties of pie, that is exactly what we did.

***

Rick and Tammy were talking to one of the Castle Blood denizens when we arrived. He was already a familiar face, after years and years of making the worthwhile hike out to Bealesville for the annual Castle Blood tour. But now instead of Professor Scrye, I know him as Chris and he is awesome. (He just loaned me some fake skin in jars for my Murder Desk at work!)

Awhile back, I had written about taking Chooch to one of the no-scare daylight matinees. I usually only write about my haunted house experiences in my paper journals (because I’m dork-loser and have been keeping a diligent record since 1996), but for whatever reason, I wrote about that one here on Oh Honestly, Erin. One of the Castle Blood girls found it and shared it with everyone else, and it was cool because some of them even commented on that post as their characters.

But I didn’t think anyone there would remember that, so I was surprised when Chris and Ricky (aka Gravely MacCabre, Castle Blood’s caretaker) both brought it up to me.

“You might be a fan of Castle Blood, but we at Castle Blood are all fans of Oh Honestly, Erin,” Gravely said and I kind of wanted to die on the spot. Chris said that they’re always on the look-out for Chooch now at the matinees. Things like this don’t happen often and I usually like to assume that only 4 people read this thing, so whenever I’m in public and someone says, “I read your blog” — well, that’s a feeling that I’m not sure I will ever get used to. It’s cool and I love it, but it’s also very bewildering.

Gravely told me there was a girl inside the Castle named Dawn and that she was the one who found my blog. “You have to tell you’re Oh Honestly, Erin when you see her!” he urged, telling me what room she would be in.

Within 3 seconds, I had forgotten. Tammy and Henry both admitted that they hadn’t heard what he said, so then I was left to internalize my panic while we stood in line, because I can’t ever just be a normal, calm human being. What if I didn’t say hello to her, and then Gravely found about it later and became angry that a subordinate had crossed him? Because clearly this was the most important thing on his mind that night, never mind the fact that he was ensuring the night’s tours went off without any fires, stink bug attacks or gang violence.

While in line, I became temporarily distracted from my plight when one of the denizen approached us with a big basket of commemorative Castle Blood roses. They were only $3 and I really wanted one. Henry and I don’t often go to haunted houses together anymore and I thought it would be really ROMANTIC if he could spare a measly $3 of his blue-collar beverage factory income, but he merely smirked in response.

Then I remembered why I don’t go to haunted houses with him. He’d sooner leave me out for the chainsaw guys than be a man and claim his property. I guess he doesn’t have hero fantasies.

So Rick bought two and I was all happy about that until he said, “What? I bought this one for Henry.” Figures, people always side with Henry within 7 seconds of meeting him. (Sometimes even BEFORE meeting him. That’s because I write him as a downtrodden underdog. If only you guys knew the truth.)

(OK fine, that is the truth.)

Meanwhile, the lady with the roses had fetched her albino friend and brought him over to inspect me, thinking I would make a good wife for him. I was very enthusiastic about this prospect, because at this point I would like to be SOMEBODY’S wife. Why not a dead albino guy with scary eyes?

He asked me what blood type I am, but then he and the rose-slinger ran off on an O+ tangent that rivaled Who’s On 1st. While those two were bantering, I looked at Henry in horror and whispered, “What’s my blood type?”

“I don’t know!” he said in that shitty, nerve-scraping tone that makes me want to castrate him along with the entire male population.

So then I spent the next countless moments suspended in time with my blood type quandary, until my prospective husband asked me again and I blurted out, “O+.” Henry said that’s probably what it is anyway. Not like he cares about my blood.

God, why can’t he just care about my blood?

Gravely was walking by so I snagged him and asked him to remind me who I was supposed to say hello to.

If someone tells me to do something, my blinders go on and I’m on a pothole-filled track to the finish line, with sweaty palms and shallow breaths, ignoring everything that passes by.

I’m kind of tightly-wound.

A witch with prosthetics was all I could think about the entire time we were in that fucking Castle.

So in every room on the tour, I would hiss to Henry, “Is that her? Do you think that’s her?” to which he would always hiss back, “I DON’T KNOW!” He was too busy nursing a corset fetish to help me not have a panic attack.

I was distracted from my mission once and only once, in the laboratory where I developed a hearty crush on the cute steampunk inventor guy.

I’ll be back for him.

Eventually, I found my contact and after everyone else in our group continued to the next room, I blurted out, “AREYOUDAWNI’MOHHONESTLYERIN” and we shook hands and I think she said something (not once breaking character) but all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears because OMG I had to TALK to someone.

I really should have a perpetual Xanax prescription.

The worst part of the tour is always the end. I mean, yeah—It’s great to turn in the talisman your group has collected and get your vampire teeth prize, but it just means that it’s time to leave. I’ve never had a bad time at the Castle, not even when Henry and I were stuck with a group of disrespectful teenagers who subsequently got thrown out and we were given complimentary tickets for having to deal with that, but going with Rick and Tammy really made it a cool, personal experience. It was really awesome getting to meet everyone there for real and it made me wish my mom and I were on speaking terms because she would have died. Castle Blood used to be our thing to do together. You know, before she went crazy. I will forever associate it with her.

(OMG, that steampunk guy was so hot.)

***

Afterward, we decided to go to dinner.

“I don’t care where we go, just as long as I can get a grilled cheese,” I said, whining about being sick of pie. “I just need cheese, anything with cheese.”

We wound up at King’s and Rick taunted me as we walked past the pie case. I was choking back regurgitated crust every time I even THOUGHT of the word “pie” after eating it all day at the pie party.

However, I did remark that there was not one pumpkin pie to be had at the pie party, which surprised us all. That’s not saying I was desiring pumpkin pie at that point, I was just simply making an observation.

King’s has creamed spinach now as a side, and I kept trying to coax Henry into ordering it.

“Why?” he asked, clearly annoyed at my persistence.

“Because you’re old. And also, because I want to try it,” I reasoned.

He did not order a side of creamed spinach with his burger.

However, when our waitress brought our food, she said to me, “I was told to bring you this instead,” as she slid a slice of pumpkin pie under my nose, followed by a bowl of creamed spinach.

According to my dinner companions, I looked like I was about to cry. I craned my neck to look for my grilled cheese while everyone laughed. The waitress didn’t have the heart to drag out the prank any longer and finally rewarded me with a sparkling plate of God’s Favorite Sandwich and sweet potato fries.

It was a perfect ending to a great night which served as a reminder of why I keep writing in this blog. It has provided me with the opportunity to meet so many awesome and interesting people, and it’s something I think about whenever I feel like throwing in the towel. I’m just really appreciative. (And now I have to go egg an orphanage to balance it all out.)

[If you live in the Pittsburgh area and haven't ever been to Castle Blood, you're dumb. But seriously, go check it out! And if you have little kids, they offer daylight matinee tours on the last 2 Sundays of October. It's only $5 for that and the kids get to trick-or-treat inside the Castle. Totally worth the drive out to Bealesville, so go and do that now.]

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At Least It Wasn’t Chucky: LiveJournal Repost

haunted houses, Henrying, LiveJournal Repost

Feb 082011

Hello. I’m reposting this oldie from LiveJournal to remind Henry that, while I may currently have a crush on his old ass, THINGS CAN CHANGE. He could still LOSE ME.

I do crush easily, after all. (Seriously, I’m juggling about three of them right now. One of them might be yours.)

***

At Least It Wasn’t Chucky

October 2007

Last night, Henry and I kicked off the 2007 haunted house season with a VIP treatment at Castle Blood. I’ve been patronizing this haunt for quite literally the past twelve years of my life, so when Henry came home one day and bragged about his company scoring a promotional partnership with them for the season, I exalted on high. He got stacks and stacks of free passes out of the deal, too, which is fantastic because it regularly costs $13. This is why I’m always broke after October.

Henry embarrassed me by wearing his Freek Energy Drink t-shirt and managed to succeed in juxtaposing himself with all of the giant Freek ads every chance he got while we stood in line. An employee dressed as a mad scientist came over and slyly said, “Are you the man who dropped 100 cases of love on us?” and Henry puffed out his chest so everyone could see the logo and then the scientist gave him handfuls of Freek swag which made Henry happy.

“Wow! No one ever gave me the tattoos and magnets before!!” he exclaimed. He even wound up with two Freek highlighters by the end of the night. Congratulations! You just got a bunch of shit that you could have gotten from your office.

Then Henry rained free passes on the people in line with us and acted all ass-wounded when one of the little girls didn’t reciprocate by acting like he was Santa. That mustache freaks kids out, I keep telling him. Then the guy who runs the place came over and told the ticket guy to only send us in with the three people in front of us so that we could have a pleasant experience, sans the screaming obnoxious brats who polluted the line behind us. I was smug. Thanks for wearing your Freek shirt after all, Henry.

(You’re still a loser, though.)

I know you all think this post is going to be about how I loved/hated the haunted house or how Henry’s weener ended up in a wall-cranny or how I found the perfect coffin to be buried in, but really this is about the most intense and pure and real human connection I have ever (never?) had.

A guy walked past me as I stood in line. He was short; in his twenties; looked apathetic, like he’d rather be at a Magic tourney. Trailing closely behind him in a cacophonous bubble were two young kids whom he seemed unable to shake. My initial guess was that they were his siblings and he was forced into bringing them there. I didn’t think anything of him after that. A few minutes later, I glanced to my left and saw him again, but this time he was stationed behind his AUTOGRAPH BOOTH BECAUSE OMG IT WAS ANDY FROM “CHILD’S PLAY”!!! No wonder why he looked like he was forced to be there!

And because:

a) I was bored
b) I was standing in line and bored
c) I was with Henry standing in line and bored
d) I have ridiculous crush criteria;

it was only natural for my heart to swell with that intense love that your typical Ed Gein probably felt as he stood above the body of the attractive barfly he snuffed earlier that day and just realized how fabulous her hide would look as a lampshade. I buried my head in Henry’s armpit and squealed as Alex (that’s his real name in case you assholes didn’t know) approached the children behind us and did card tricks for them.

“Oh my god he’s so cute! Oh my god I can’t handle it! Oh my god he’s so close to us right now!” I broke up with Henry a few times so I could run off into the sunset with Alex; Henry pretended to be good natured about it. Probably because being there was like a business meeting for him and he had to maintain his facade of phony sleazeball salesman.

He did, however, push me off the curb once.

Alex’s autograph booth was set up right next to Castle Blood’s exit. When we came out, there was a teenage girl getting him to sign a photo. She bounced from foot to foot like she was running through tires and talked in a quick high-pitched voice fueled by star lust. “Oh my god I can’t wait to tell my friends! You have to understand, no one ever comes to our town!” (Bealesville, Castle Blood’s locale, is about an hour outside of Pittsburgh and there’s honestly nothing to do there.) Alex smiled and pushed the photo back to her.

I didn’t want it to be my turn! I wasn’t ready! I tried to get Henry to do it for me, but he shouldered me toward the table.

I made a brilliant first impression.

“Hi can I have your autograph?”
“The colored photos are $15. Black and white are $10.”
“Shit, my money’s in the car. BRB.”

I probably wouldn’t have been back. I’m a tightwad. BUT! As I made to walk away, Alex stopped me.

“So, is it any good in there?” he asked, nodding toward the castle with his REALLY CUTE HEAD.

So I had an opportunity to get into my element and tell him about how fantastic it is and how I want to live there. He remarked about that as I walked away so I laughed along with him, but naturally I have no idea what he said.

On the way back to the car, I completely unraveled. “Oh my god did you see how cute he was? Oh my god, should I really go back? Oh my god, was I worse, better or the same as the girl in front of me?”

Henry told me I talk too much.

I went back after all and bought a black and white photo. I know, there’s little I won’t do for love. I made a big production of choosing between the TWO black and white photos, before settling on one with him and the director. “That’s my favorite one,” he said. “Cool,” I remarked, trying to keep my composure. I wanted to ask him to write “Your blog is the best” or “We made a really cute kid together!” but instead I stood there silently, gnawing on my bottom lip as he wrote “To Erin, Chucky did it!” Then we had a brief exchange about how he spelled my name right and he scoffed at the thought of people spelling it wrong and said, “But then it would be Aaron!” and I’ve always been attracted to people who even say the boy’s version differently than “Erin.” He is an amazing man.

He then asked me if I’m from Beallsville and I yelled, “No, Pittsburgh!” because God forbid he should think I’m a townie. I asked him where he’s from, and he said, “Jersey.” I should have asked him really awesome questions, like, “If you had to have one of your organs stolen, which one would it be?” (For me, it would be any of the ones that I’d die without. ANY of them. Take them all, fuckers. Or my skin. I seem to have a lot of that.) Or, “Where should we go to make this baby?” But instead I was all, “Yo-de-doh, how long are you here?” delivered atop of serving of insane giggles.

I really think though that the only thing preventing us from embroiling in the passionate act of porno-making was that damn table with his seven-year-old mug plastered all over it. He asked me if there’s anything to do around there and I should have said “Yes — me” but instead I rolled my eyes like a disinterested teenager and said, “Ha, no!” and he laughed but what if he was hoping I’d invite him down to the pier for a cock fight? (I’m not sure there are any piers in Bealesville, but if he wanted one, I’d have made Henry build one.)

So that was that. No swapping of spit, no crude genital introductions. Instead, we stuck with just saying goodbye to each other. I rushed back over to Henry, who was talking to the owner of Castle Blood a few feet away from my love, so I had the excruciating chore of remaining in his line of sight. I tugged on Henry’s arm. “Give me your cell phone!” I whispered, like one of those annoying children who have little regard for when their parents are in the middle of a conversation with another grown up. I had one whole friend I needed to call and relay this sorrowful tale of The One Who Got Away! Henry distractedly pulled out his phone, looked at it, then dropped it back in his pocket, too engrossed in his discussion to fully understand what I had asked. I growled like an angry teen.

On the way back to the car, I reiterated what went down. “I really think he liked me back because there was this REALLY STRONG eye contact. I mean, it was intense! But I was so sweaty though.” (It was 90 fucking degrees that day and some of the humidity lingered in the air that night, making the hallways of Castle Blood stuffy and moist.)

“Some guys like sweaty girls,” Henry said encouragingly.

I talked about it the whole way home.

“Can you believe I met him?? Oh my god, I love—-” I had to pause to refer to the autograph because I forgot his name. “–Alex Vincent so much! I really feel like it was the strongest connection I’ve ever forged with someone. Oh shit I should have given him my business card! I could have written ‘KIT’ on it!”

“KIT?” Henry asked.

“Uh, yeah. It means keep in touch. Maybe if people actually signed your yearbook, you’d know that.”

Then Henry changed the subject by ridiculing me for being the only person he knows who consistently leaves her business cards at home.

After the excitement of getting Alex’s autograph wore off, I morphed into full-blown stalker mode. “We’d have an awesome life together I bet. I’d call him and be like, ‘Hey Alex baby, what do you want me to bring home for dinner?’”

This caused Henry to laugh with aneurysm-triggering force. “Oh, that’s funny. You would never ask something like that! Maybe if it started with ‘Could you,’ ‘can you,’ ‘will you,’ it would be more believable.”

I’ll be back for you, Andy. I don’t feel like I got my $10′s worth.

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Hundred Acres Manor

haunted houses

Oct 222010

Everyone knows I love haunted houses, but what I love even more is going to a haunted house with someone who hates haunted houses, and by that I of course mean someone who has a weak heart and pees herself at the mere sight of an animatronic corpse rotting on a blood-squirting commode and then has to schedule an extra session with her therapist because she can’t stop the sensation of walking through a hallway cramped with dangling body bags.

And that is exactly the kind of person my friend Gina is. It took a little bit of needling, but I finally got her to agree to go to Hundred Acres Manor last night. It was a bit of a gamble, considering she’s a new friend and I try to wait at least half a year before lead-footing the abuse pedal.

Since it was a Thursday, and a few minutes before the ticket booth closed, there was no one in line. This made Gina whimper and begin back-peddling, but I reminded her of the scandelous photos I have of her from 1998 and that made her quit tugging me back to the direction of the car.

Today, when I went to her house to retrieve the clump of my hair and flesh from my hand which she tore off in one of her scared rabbit fits inside the Manor, I found her diary splayed open to this page:

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Manuel Goes to a Haunted House

haunted houses, Manuel

Oct 212010

…and calls Henry to tell him all about it.

I stole Henry’s phone while he was sleeping so I could make this recording for all of you special people to hear.

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An Un-Ironic Post Card

haunted houses, nostalgia, travel, Uncategorized

Jun 282010

P1010028, originally uploaded by appledale.

My friend Mose came over Saturday night to drink wine and be a porch-sitter with me. Somehow the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast came up in conversation and I felt inspired to go back and look at the pictures from when Henry took me there for my birthday. I think it was in 2003. So now we know that 2003 was the last good birthday I had.

Anyway, he and I were the only guests that night in July, aside from this really goofy guy named Mike who was house-sitting for the summer. I remember being beyond scared to the point of barely sleeping, and then cracking my thigh on the underside of the super-low dining room table the next morning over a breakfast of jonny cakes. Scared and bruised, that is my summation.

This is a picture of me and my big arms, sitting on Lizzie’s parent’s bed, writing a very un-ironic postcard to my death row pen pal, Greg. “Hey Greg, I’m in a house of murder. IS THIS WHAT YOUR HOUSE FEELS LIKE!?”

I would like to go back there someday.

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Castle Blood, Chooch & a Costume Conundrum

chooch, haunted houses, holidays

Oct 302009

Castle Blood has been one of my favorite haunted houses to go to since I was in high school. It was one of the first, if not THE first, in the area to let you interact with the costumed characters by giving each group a mission to fulfill. Granted, they make it fairly impossible to fail and the prize is the same every year (vampire teeth), but damn if the decor and costumes aren’t fun to look at.

Twice a season, they offer no-scare daylight trick-or-treat tours for kids. We took Chooch last year and he seemed rather complacent about it. I thought maybe this year he’d be more into it, but all he cared about was seeing Dracula. Seriously, the kid was reenacting Pee Wee’s Alamo performance with all of his “When do we get to see Dracula?” inquiries.

Before embarking on our mission, we had to meet with Gravely in the library, who informed us what three talismans we’d have to be on the lookout for in order to pass the test at the end. This year’s theme was Night of the Vampire or something, so he asked, “What can you tell me about vampires?” When it was my turn, I said off the top of my head, “They have to be invited in.” Gravely said, “That’s a good one, and not one that I hear often. Good job.” I didn’t have time to gloat though, because Henry snidely patronized, “You only know that because you just watched True Blood the other day.” Yes, that’s right, you dumb motherfucker. I just learned that fact in 2009 from an over-hyped, commercialized vampire series on cable TV. FUCK YOU HENRY. And people wondered why I broke up with him on Facebook.

Chooch did not give one tiny shit about the live actors offering him candy and trying to intimidate him with their make-up enhanced sunked cheekbones and bloody lip-corners. He was entirely too busy poking around all the props and admiring the animatronic bodies clandestinely plugged into walls. I’m starting to think he’s showing an interest in set design.

castleblood4

Alisha had a crush on every corseted denizen. It was embarrassing.

In each room, a new dead person would recite their well-practiced script, but it fell on deaf ears. Chooch was bored out of his mind, toeing the ground, dropping the talismans he was stupidly entrusted with, and hissing from the side of his mouth, “You said Dracula was gonna be here.” Not like he would have understood half of what was being told to us anyway, since the spiel wasn’t toned down at all for the sake of the underage set. I even caught Henry furrowing his caterpillar brow at words that weren’t exactly SAT-caliber, but still too smart for him. Maybe Chooch would have been more captivated if they had spoken on his level; you know, peppering sentences with the Tarantino All-Spice of ”asshole” and “motherfucker.”

I was more excited than Chooch over the candy he was collecting. It was hard for me to keep my hands out of each candy bowl we passed. Especially the one full of Reeses Cups. Shit.

I had to give Chooch a reassuring shove to get him to accept the vial of vampire blood from a vampirate who sounded super sick and I swear to god if we get H1N1 I’ll be so excited to say I caught the swine flu from a motherfucking VAMPIRATE, ya’ll.

Chooch was completely over it by this point. He was sitting on the ground, with his back toward the mad scientist. Only the highest form of insult for a performer, and let me tell you, these people DO NOT EVER DROP CHARACTER. I could have dropped a baby out of my uterus right in the middle of their cobwebbed crypt only for a cloaked witch with a hunch back to come swooping in to say, “Ooh, a freshly baked mortal infant for my witch’s brew!”

Sadly, all good things must end and once proving that we collected all three talismans, we were all given a pair of werewolf teeth that were really just vampire teeth and then we all had to do our best wolf howl. Of course, mine was phenonemal, Alisha’s was weak, and Henry’s sounded as though he was being fucked by a pine cone. This was also the only time Chooch seemed happy to participate, because he’s good at being loud.

And now tomorrow is Halloween and we still have no costume for Chooch. I almost had him convinced to be an old lady. We even went to the thrift shop last night to find him a dress, but he started acting all stupid about it and I got all stressed out and left him and Henry in there. When I ask him what he wants to be, he says, “I just want to be CHOOCH.” So I asked, “And what will you say if someone asks what you’re supposed to be?” He said, “A motherfucker.” NO, NO YOU WILL NOT SAY THAT.

If he doesn’t decide on something easy and cheap by tonight, I’m stuffing a green box around him and he can go as a fucking dumpster baby. Mama’s not playing games anymore.

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dreams and shit

haunted houses, random picture Sunday

Oct 182009

Yesterday, Jessi won the title of Best Fiancee in the History of People Getting Engaged by buying Bill two tickets to today’s Steelers game.

Anyway, if you live in Pittsburgh (which I do) and know anything about the Steelers (which I don’t, on purpose even), then you know tickets are kind of hard to come by and not very cheap when you do. So it was kind of a big deal for Bill, whose dream was to see the Steelers play in Heinz Field, and he cried.

I kind of want to steal Jessi from Bill so she can make my dreams come true, too.

This was right after the ticket deal went down at a nearby gas station. My favorite part of this picture is totally Jessi in the background, God love her.

And here they are today, before they left for the game. You’d never know they’re from Michigan. Until they start talking all weird.

Actually, I guess I had a dream realized as well. Last night, we went to Cheeseman’s Fright Farm, and Freddy Kreuger totally hooked me up with Michael Myers. I’m talking about Freddy straight up went and FETCHED him for me after Bill and Jessi were all, “Whoa, back up, g. Michael Myers is her boo, not yo’ triflin’ ass” when he tried horror-flirting with me. Plus, on the hayride, one of the chainsaw guys totally sat next to me and gyrated all up on my side while waving the chainsaw in my face, and I have to say, it was pretty fucking erotic.

Bill had an opportunity to do something nice for Jessi in return by letting her pick out one of the $12 bunnies that were for sale (and desperately coveted by her) at Cheeseman’s farm, but Bill hates all things cute and cuddly. Pass it on.

Also we ate lunch at Kelly O’s yesterday (which has graced an episode of Diners, Dive-Ins and Drives*), where Jessi had her first taste of haluski and also managed to go the whole weekend without getting maimed by my cat Marcy, so I think it’s safe to say we all had a good weekend. Except Henry. He’s always miserable.

I’m sad that they’re leaving today.

[*Apparently, Bill hates Guy Fieri, and one of the things on the menu was "Mush, the way Guy likes it". Bill ranted, quite disgustedly, "I don't know what mush is, but if it's the way Guy likes it, then I know it's the way I don't like it." Maybe I still had some of that apple pie in my system, but that was the funniest thing in the world to me and I wanted to make a plaque to monument that moment.]

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It Runs in the Fam

haunted houses, Shit about me

Oct 162008

My brother Corey was home from college over the weekend and we had hi-falutin’ plans to get crunk, slap some bare asses, prance under a shower of Benjamins. In other words, we had tentative plans to go to a haunted house.

I met him at our mom’s house Sunday night, and he informed me that his friend Dave was on his way. In waiting, we stood in the doorway of the garage while my mom blabbered on about BlogTV, MySpace, tarot card readings and her spiritual advisors. “They want to have tea parties!” she giggled, joy-riding on the crazy train like she so often does. And then, “Oh, my favorite knife!” as she plucked a paring knife from the garage wall. True story. (Listen, I grew up in this house so a random wall-wedged knife isn’t too shocking.)

Ignoring her attention-deficient outburst, Corey chose that moment to tell me that he wasn’t driving. This did not make me a happy muffin. I whined things like, I have a car seat in there!, and But I always have to drive!, and But I’m really fucking drunk from huffing formaldehyde! Corey shrugged and stood his ground.

Dave arrived and Corey began walking over to my car. “I was serious about the car seat, dude. I don’t know how to take it out,” I called after him. (This is not a lie. I fail at motherhood.) Corey, remaining undeterred, jutted his lower lip and made his eyes have the pleading look of an orphan begging for more crust. So I batted at the damn car seat two or four times, and Corey and Dave both made feeble attempts, but even Henry blathering instructions via speaker phone proved to be about as helpful as a retard reciting the Kama Sutra in Swahili to a eunuch. Meanwhile, my mom just stood around and laughed, hiccuping on her psychosis.

“Dave, it’s not so bad, right? You can sit next to it, right?” The car seat is smack dab in the middle of the backseat, so no matter which side you sit on, you’re getting a hard plastic hug to your ribs. Dave was all, “Whatever, it’s ok. Let’s just go.”

So then we picked up their friend K.C., who sweetly lied and said she was so cozy back there, like it was an arm rest made from cotton candy and clouds. Dave chimed in that he had even forgotten it was there. I have sat back there before. Granted, it’s much worse and way more painful when the seat’s keeper is strapped in, but even when Chooch is being docile (yeah, that’s never), it is not a comfortable traveling condition.

Anyway, I tried to let it go and have a good time when we arrived at Demon House. Since it was a Sunday, there was hardly any wait at all and we ended up being the last group to go through. There were some legitimate scares, K.C. accidentally smacked my boob and then talked about it for a full five minutes, and I coveted all the Satanic art work. Some dude with a hooded face kept droning, “Igor wants your soulllll!” all up in my thang but I just laughed and said, “Yeah good one. The devil already has my soul.” Stupid ass.

But still, I feel like I would have had more fun if Corey had driven!

Of course I refused to let it go. I was intoxicated off annoyance. I’m Erin Appledale (Corey ridiculed my name choice, by the way, during the drive to Demon House. The drive in which he did not drive, but rode comfortably in the passenger seat. It reminded me of another bonus of the name change: lengthening the distance from my family.) and everyone knows that Appledales like to drunk rollerskate, fellate exotic things, and dwell on every small bump in the road. Sometimes we go hog wild and drunk rollerskate over those bumps while doing the fellating.

After I came home that night, I was recounting the horror of the car seat to Henry. “I can’t believe he made them ride like that, he’s so mean to his friends,” I scoffed.

Henry laughed. I mean he LAUGHED, and then said, “Wow, sounds like someone else I know.”

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Haunted House Panderings by Erin

haunted houses

Oct 142008

Since I was sixteen, I’ve been keeping haunted house journals. It might be the nerdiest thing I do, but I imagine there’s a chorus somewhere caroling, “That’s debatable.” So at the end of every September, I dust off my dork tome and begin penciling in my haunted house calendar. (I know, I really need to take up ant farming or something.)

I had the opportunity to add a new entry to my current Goosebumps diary when my new friend Niffer asked if I wanted to hang out, perhaps go to one of those haunted casas I’m so hot for. Christina happened to be visiting as well, so I deemed it the perfect night to go to my all-time favorite haunted house, Victory Haunted School in Elizabeth, PA. Two reasons: 1. I only like going to that one with at LEAST two other people because it freaks me out that badly; 2. I wanted Niffer’s first haunted house as a Pittsburgh resident to be really fucking supreme.

On the thirty minute drive, we embroiled ourselves in talk of men perfumed with the stench of cigarette rolled in dog shit, and Christina pumped Niffer for all kinds of pertinent information to ensure she wasn’t KGB. I made Christina ride in the back because that’s where bitches belong, and she kept popping her head between the seats like an attention-starved seven-year-old riding to the strip club with her parents.

Eventually, the strip malls, car lots, and chain restaurants became more and more sparse and the road became less lit. We turned onto the road where Victory lives and began our descent into the hollow. I’ve always thought that the last mile to get to Victory is nearly as scary as the haunted house itself and I always try to guess how many prom dates have been murdered in those woods. Because what else is there to do in Elizabeth? I mean, other than watch their sucky high school football team?

Victory’s website hadn’t been updated for 2008, but all of the haunted house listings swore that it was open. WELL THEY LIED. I mean, I never expect a crowd when I pull up, but I do expect that the front door will at least not have a board nailed to it. It was most certainly closed, nailed up tighter than Jesus. I stared at it for a few seconds, mouth agape, refusing to accept it. This was the longest-running haunted house in Pittsburgh! For thirteen motherfucking years I was harrassed and heckled in those pitch-black corridors. I went there while I was pregnant, even, no fetus was going to hold ME down. (I was only two months pregnant, chill.)

This was the place that had unrelenting chainsaw action. One of my friends fell running from him up basement steps and he showed no mercy. She was crying her fat face off and I laughed and laughed because I could run faster. The scariest part was that most of it was squeezing through cramped hallways, hands held out as feelers. You’d always end up groping one of the monsters and then they’d snarl in your ear and you’d pee your granny pants and shout “OMFG LET ME OUT.”

My favorite memory of Victory was from 1999 when I was nineteen. I had gone there with my friends Brian and Heather, and after a traumatic run-through which featured Heather very dramatically dry-heaving from the overly ambitious fog machines in the basement (the basement, might I add, made the basement in Blair Witch Project look like Candy Land), we had a horrific run-in with two chainsaw guys in the parking lot. The lot is a small gravel area across from the haunted school, at the base of a wooded hillside. As we approached my car, one of the chainsaw guys came barrelling at me from the woods, and the other had come from across the street. Brian and Heather had already got in the car, and of course they thought it would be fucking hysterical, a real lovely story for the hobos in the soup kitchen, to lock me out of the car. So I’m running around this dark, mostly empty parking lot, punching myself in the crotch to keep from panic-pissing, two chainsaws buzzing against my billowing hair. Brian actually had a change of heart and unlocked my door, but showed no mercy in ridiculing me.

Angry at Brian and shaken up by the chase, I tried to make a hasty exit. Unfortunately, the parking lot is poorly lit and I didn’t notice the car that was parked perpendicularly behind me. I sure noticed it after the sickening crunch it made as my bumper violated its side, that’s for sure. And of course, it would belong to one of the chainsaw guys, who happened to witness the whole thing. His chainsaw dropped and he flung his mask onto the gravel, then stood in front of my car, furiously miming for me to get out. The next hour was spent waiting for a cop to come (he insisted on having a report filed), me sobbing and repeatedly asking if I was going to jail, and being reamed out by a very pissed off car owner. At one point, the other chainsaw guy sat with me in my car, consoling me by saying, “Don’t let him get to you. He’s a mother fucker to everyone. He made me feel better and if Heather wasn’t in the backseat, I probably would have given him a handjob for his effort.

But last Saturday night, there were no other cars in that dark gravel parking lot for me to batter. I blame all these big commercial haunts that are popping up. The ones that herd you through like cattle in groups of fifteen and just aren’t scary.

Luckily, one of the fire departments in a neighboring town has been putting one together in the basement of a school gym for the past three years. It’s a little too short, but it has promise and some legitimate scares (NIffer almost had a heart attack because not only were there clowns, but a midget one at that), some horrific encounters with Freddy Krueger and Leatherface, and a robed man with a needling eastern European accent of some sort that kept reappearing to heckle us.

Christina and I went to this same one last year and I seriously was near-tears because the whole thing made me feel uncomfortable and they literally have you walking through small rooms in this damp cement basement and I kept shouting WHAT IF THIS IS REAL AND WE DON’T MAKE IT OUT OMFG DID I TELL CHOOCH I LOVED HIM BEFORE I LEFT??

Unfortunately, there was no Michael Myers.I have recurring fantasies of a chase ending with an erotic rape romp so my thighs quake subsequently every time I see him. Michael left me with a wet hot memory at Cheeseman’s haunted hayride two weekends ago, at least, when he had me pressed up against a wall in an empty hallway and we were face to Shatner-mask. He kept trying to shoo Janna away and I really believe that a child could have been conceived that night if Janna had left. Either that or the knife that was so dangerously near to my cheek was real and Michael and his friends would be dining on Erin Appledale flapjacks the next morning.

Anyway, I really hope whoever was behind that mask was at least of legal age, because his jock bumped against me several times and I had urges, mighty urges, to cup his ballsack. Scandelous.

And that’s how I like my haunted houses.

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