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: