As previously written, there were members of the ScareHouse at the Roller Derby Championship Bout.
I think they will take this as a compliment when I say they were freaks of nature.
The P-G has an article in today’s edition about the ScareHouse and the fact that it is one of the top haunted houses in the country.
“People that run are by far my favorite,” said Dejah Harnish, 24, of the North Side. “You scare them and,” she snaps her fingers, “they’re gone. They might run past the next three scares before they finally slow down.”
Sprinters are anticipated, though, and precautions are taken, like putting an actor near a wall “to bounce them in the other direction,” said Harnish.
“We pad our corners for a reason,” said Christopher Gilgour, 28, of Troy Hill.
Oh, hell no.
I will not be going to the ScareHouse even though the freak at the derby handed me a free ticket. Here’s why: I am a wussy baby scaredy cat when it comes to haunted houses.
I have been to two in my life and both times it took all of my bladder control strength to not pee my pants in fright.
The first I want to say for some reason was on a boat. Or maybe down at Station Square? Maybe on the Gateway Clipper? I don’t know. I remember a boat. I remember wanting to cry. I was like 19-years-old. I have apparently blocked the trauma out.
The second I remember much more clearly was at college in Texas. A big group of us decided to go to the local haunted house, which was not a house but a warehouse. I believe Pens Fan and Ohio Sister were both in the group.
I should have known it wasn’t going to be my cup of pumpkin spice when we were waiting in line outside and I felt a presence behind me. A slight breath on my neck, if you will. I turned slowly to find FACELESS DEATH standing not an inch behind me, breathing heavily on me, moaning a little bit like, “Ooooh. That girl’s soul would taste soooooo yummy.”
I did that half-laugh you do when you’re freaked out but you don’t want to show it and gave Death a little shove and told him to go breathe on someone else.
Inside the haunted warehouse, I remember being chased by a freak with a chainsaw and in my head I was like, “PittGirl. Why are you running? Clearly this is fake and that man’s chainsaw is fake and the saw isn’t really running even though it sounds exactly like a running chainsaw. And listen to you scream like a little girl. Really. Cowgirl up and put your big girl panties on. Stop running. Unless this is someday going to be an urban legend where the girl thinks the haunted house is fake but it ends up being real and she gets her head cut off with a chainsaw. You know what? RUN!”
I also remember one of my friends Nick was with me. Nick was a strong black guy. He played soccer, if I’m remembering correctly. I haven’t talked to Nick in years. And as I was running away screaming from the guy that wanted to cut my head off, my arms possibly flailing, Nick was doubled over. Pointing and laughing. Just yukking it up, really.
A bit later, near the end of the path through the warehouse, Nick was walking in front of me, you know, because he’s strong and brave and I’ll protect you, PittGirl.
And a gorilla jumped out of the shadows. A dumb gorilla.
And Nick screamed like a baby girl.
And Nick stopped dead in his tracks and reached behind himself to grab onto me. I was ready to tell him that I was fine. It’s a guy in a gorilla suit. I don’t need to use your body as a human shield, thanks.
But then I realized that Nick was frantically scrambling to get BEHIND me because he apparently wanted me to protect him.
And boy, did I yuk it up.
Sissy. I mean, it’s not like it was a scary howler monkey.
Then, my God, shoot the bastard.