Scarer's High

originally published May 2025

October 2018.

A month where only the richness of night mattered to me, days just boring waiting rooms holding back true life; hours I spent coddled by screams and a feeling of approaching ecstasy. It was Halloween Horor Nights 28.

The cast I was a part of that night were all lined up, waiting to enter the tent and receive the first guests of the night. The door lay in front of us, the staff portables behind us. Above all rose the iconic saucers of Men In Black: Alien Attack. Tonight, I was assigned to Dead Exposure: Patient Zero, one of my three "haunt homes" I was sporadically assigned to, and loved to be in. Each cast was familiar to me, my random visits as welcomed by them as their idiosynchrasies were by me.

The night wasn't warm, but I don't recall a breeze. That strange weather of inland Florida between summer and fall. I felt no discomfort as we waited for confirmation that Stay and Scream had opened, and we would need to head in and anticpate our own opening. Our house wasn't on the S&S list, but one close to us was, and they'd be here within seconds of official opening. I was assuming a new role as a Catacomb Zombie; I adorned the now familiar black base layer and a thick layer of black spraypaint from temple to temple, obscuring any human skin and leaving only the glints of my eyes visible. Over top it all awas a bedraggled cloak of sorts, comprised of grey "rotted" cloths, and a full coverage mask shaped into a leering, agonized skull. The radio on one of the assistant's sides lit up, and the cue call was quickly drowned out by cheers and howls. We walked as one into the sleeping house, dispersing gradually into shadows. Disembodied giggles and muffled steps echoed in the space. Being in here before the music started felt like being in a playground that fell into disuse and disrepair, begging for hands and feet and screams.

If a spot was quiet and had a smiliarly leveled trigger, I'd usually put in earbuds and enjoy a house mix or Queen's greatest hits (fully aware that was against the rules but, hey, it was Halloween), but tonight would be way too rambunctious to not give every sense over to the room. I stepped gingerly out of my boo hole and onto the raised platform I'd be stationed on, just a couple feet off the floor, but every inch mattered when you only had strobe effects to help you see. My primary function was to loom over the guests, my trigger something like a hoarse growl that would be nearly impossible to hear over the remix they'd play in here. But what mattered, really, was presence.

Because in that house, in that hour plus until break . . . all you want is to be seen. And all they that come in want is to see you. To see you take on the shape of the monster in their minds, see you morph into a horror. a spectacle, that can make their vision flash white and quiet that voice in their minds. They want you to make them feel something.
And I, standing still and patient, breating loud in my own ears as it echoed in the mask, body thrumming with the music and the many pounding feet, will feel goosebumps rise on my skin; electricity forms an almost visible current that will jump from me to my set-mates, forming a dome that covers the area, and when the guests walk in they will feel it like nail across the back of their neck. They'll call it fear. Beautiful, freeing fear.

The night begins tamely. Five, ten people, a lull for a handful of minutes. The warm-up. I swooped overhead as I hit the trigger underfoot. Savoring the contortion of facial muscles and body as the incoming finally registered my controlled threat. Faces spasming, mouths opening in a way that looked like the prelude to belly-aching alughter, but a scream came out instrad- usually. Sometimes they really did laugh! It takes all sorts. Most were, at this point in the house, immersed. You showed me your truth for about an hour, I ate it up, and just at the point where I was getting full, the replacement cast was tapping on my shoulder. I tapped them back for good luck, and I was out. At this location, you couldn't head back to the breakroom without walking in guest view, so we kept hamming it up for their cheers and whistles until we were finally free of public sight.

Inside the comfort of the breakroom, I shucked my mask and chugged water for nearly a minute straight. Two things about break that night remain perfectly clear, like halo cut diamonds in my mind:
1. Titan A.E. One of the actors loved that movie with all their heart and soul, and it wasn't until seeing it again that I remembered I loved it, too. That movie does NOT get enough credit, especially its kickass soundtrack.
2. Lunch. Or dinner, whatever you wanna call your late night break meal. There was one tiny bistro to take care of four houses, the open rides, game stalls, and security. So you had to walk with purpose, and know your order. My go-to on scare nights is typically a fruit cup and either water or Powerade, maybe a wrap if I really need tehe protein . . . but the special was chicken and waffles. And it smelled good. So we're standing there, spray painted and disheveled and sweaty in a jittery crowd, trying to differentiate the proper meal line from the crush in front of the coolers and the others roaming for a seat in this spot that seats fifteen at most, and I just go, "Can I get a waffle? Can I PLEASE get a waffle?"
The crowd laugh track runs. I glow with validation.

With the taste of maple syrup still lingering on my gums, I'm back at it again in the catacombs, and it. Is. Banging! Nevre in all my fuor weeks of scare acting had I felt a rush like what flowed through me that night. A conga line of people were coming in; what we lost in the intimacy of slow scaresles with controlled crowds, we made up for with sheer ferality. It had to have been something like a contact high, the fear and excitement of all the guests mingling and soaking into everything, whipping into a frenzy. Lights flashed- purple, white- skull faces leering at you from above your vulnerable crown. There was swearing. Shrieks. I will attempt toe xplain the near deified high I experienced.

People moved below me, not in a smooth line but. Jerky. Shuffling. Meek in the black. The experiences in the prior rooms made them weary but also amped, and they were just as much compelled as obligated to move forward. Skulls lined the walls of the catacomb room, and they were so busy looking around, expecting a face to pop out from the side that they scarcely thought to look up. Up, where I was free to move, to catch their attention. So when they did look up . . . Coil screeched overhead as suddenly a grimy skull dipped down towards them, a gleeful discordance that I did my very best to transfer to the people below like an energetic wave, arms stretching out and growling trigger activated. The fright! The screaming! And best of all, the collapsing! I saw a woman drop to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut, but her friends quickly grasped her arms and hauled her up and out. Three men ducked and nearly folded into each other like cheap party tables, screaming high and shrill, rollicking horrified pinballs. To all, even tall people, I was a floating, uninviting face caught in flashes. I was simultaneously not real and yet the realest thing in that moment. I'm someone's memory. In this manner, I am eternal. Or is it immortal? Do I even care?

Of course I had some unaffected people come through, there not for the scares but for the goodwill of the group. In no way did this ruin the fun, in fact I found them impressive! I've spent years attending Halloween events and I still flinch. Hell, I flinch at loud spoilers on cars. People who don't flinch . . . I'm admiring and envious. Point is:

I loved it all.

Hours of this cycle went by. Fright, revel, sprawl out on the couch. Repeat. I either wanted to sleep or stay forever in the moment, that flash of purple white and the laugh-scream faces, or both or none. Finally, I'm watching the last walkthrough after official closing. The event has ended. We're given the cue to leave our spots finally, and if anyone were around they'd see slumped over freaks and undead things dragging their feet, exhausted but laughing, recounting best moments, on the way to the makeup tent or breakroom. I and a few others head for the latter- I bought my own makeup wipes especially for this, and I had a lovely pot of Pond's cold cream in the fridge waiting to bless my pores.

After two weeks of the event I lost my shyness and stripped right there in the room with so many others, revealing sports bra and boy shorts before donning my comfy black sweats and a cropped tee. A lot of us walk out together, heading in the same general direction for a few minutes before some branch off to meet friends at other venues, or to the bistro for one last meal. Sometimes we'll take a scenic shortcut through the front of the park, snapping pictures of the scarezones without any performance. We cut through to the shortest walk to the main building, where everyone has to go to exit or enter. Walk through security, find my sweet little Camry, Betty, and enjoy a quiet ride home. Perhaps it would have benefitted me to ride in silence after hours of screaming and rock-techno, but, I'm either listening to Breaking Benjamin or something. I'm driving and I'm thinking of how amazing it is to get to do this, to be paid for it. I'm thinking about what snack I'll eat before sleeping. What fun I'll have tomorrow.