Last night was Halloween (or the more properly Pagan-y, Celtic-y "Hallowe'en") and Kyler and I decided to do something I'd never done before, cause as we all know, there's a first time for everything.And quite frankly, I was tired of being a Halloween Haunted House Virgin.
So we schlepped out to the Washington County fairgrounds which had been converted--for the month of October, pretty much--into a presumably nightmarish and semi-Ray Bradbury-ish/carnivalistic "haunted" amusement park-type thingy. Sorta. In other words, halls that likely held assorted livestock during the Fair's Summer run had been converted into various depraved/creepy/sordid/migraine-inducing "haunted houses" (for lack of a better term), two of which were deemed PG or PG-13 and two of which were ostensibly more of a benign G, although those also elicited much frightened shrieking and howling and wall-shaking from the gaggles of jumpy, horny, parentally-free teen couples that wandered the grounds that night.
Upon arrival, we took stock of the creepy scene and hoofed it over to the first PG-13 scare, a hall called "Caged Rage" (nevermind that it sounds like a round of WWF Smackdown!). We got in line (admittedly, I was one of the oldest people "on queue") while a door slammed open and shut at regular intervals, a chainsaw ripped through the night air, and much screaming ensued. Yeah, I was a bit nervous and wondered what the hell I'd agreed to while trying not to watch the two filling-sucking teens in front of us obliviously deep kiss.
Finally, we were up to the door, and the "host" (another Zombie-esque dude) opened the door and let us in, slamming it with a loud thud behind us.
First thought? Disorienting. I was grateful I'm not an epileptic.
A fog machine filled the space with a thick haze while a strobe light flashed mercilessly (think 90's dance club). Kyler and I stood there for a moment to orient ourselves in the midst of a bunch of swinging pig carcasses and listened to the reverberating echoes of everyone else's shrieking. He waited for me to step forward and, hands out in front of me like Helen Keller, I took a step, then simply stopped. No can do. He would be leading this little expedition (and later he said, "I figured if I didn't take the lead we'd never get anywhere." So true, so true.) Although he remained a few feet in front of me at all times, all I could see was a vague shape, and so I followed that.
And off we went, slowly.
My second thought? Annoyance. And hilarity. It struck me as not only bizarre and terribly distracting, but really rather funny, and I'm not sure why. There's nothing intrinsically hilarious about dead pigs and being menaced by Zombies (remember, the actors aren't allowed to touch you), but it all suddenly seemed so silly.
So there we were, feeling our way through a twisted meat processing plant (well, aren't they all, really?) and being harassed by the occasional yelling, jumping Zombie, some of whom followed us for a bit ("Mostly college kids earning their beer money," as Kyler'd said) most of whom gave up when neither of us betrayed any fear at all. I pretty much laughed until my ribs hurt and by the time we got to the end--the only way out was past the chainsaw-wielding back doorman--I could barely say two words. He stopped Kyler, put the "blade" against his chest and let the thing roar, then lifted it and let him out. I sighed heavily, between laughing fits. He'd perform the same intimidation tactic on me, so I just stood there quizzically, and let him menace me. In fact, he seemed a little bored and, since I wasn't quaking/screaming/covering my eyes/shuddering or otherwise trying to flee, he also seemed to sigh, lifted the blade and out I stumbled, barely able to breathe from my laughing fit.
There were times when I wanted to just stop, stare at the actors and say, "Look, it wasn't believable, you know? Can you rethink your motivation and try that again? I mean, you're DEAD."
But then again, I have an MFA in theater and I understand performance, not breaking the 4th wall, playing your intention, etc. etc. So I'm sorta jaded and not a good judge of what might be truly frightening for numerous others.I do, however, find authentic haunted houses really, truly creepy, houses with a history, with known paranormal activity, etc. I've toured them, and I've been flipped out. But this? Just gross. And annoying. And weird. Really weird.
We walked over to the next PG attraction, something called the "Hall of Human Waste" (and they meant this both figuratively and literally, since there was a disgusting diorama of overflowing toilets and piles of odorless fake shit and I commented loudly as we passed, "Wow, it's like a really successful frat party!") which was considerably more "low-key"--if being menaced by paid actors can be considered low-key--than the slaughter house had been. In fact, we found ourselves wandering past many closed doors within the darkly-lit maze that I expected to fly open at any time--and which did not. The baby-eating Zombie nutjob was quite impressive, however--the actress who had the role really did her homework. She was crazy AND dead and seemed to be enjoying snacking on her child....I thought she was fake until she howled at a gaggle of screaming teens behind us, and when I turned in awe at her acting abilities (I looked back at her and said, "Man, that was GREAT!") she kept staring at me crazily, in character, moving her head around and looking, well, utterly, otherworldy nuts. And of course, very dead.
The last two attractions were staid by comparison, one a crypt with even worse strobe lighting than before, the other a basic haunted Victorian house with a trembly door attendant who seemed to be channeling my cat's hairball-hucking reflexes, and a sweet-sounding old lady who was still as a mannequin until she lept from her dining-room chair to cackle something incomprehensible as we passed by. Kyler and I and one other midlifer who'd happened along with us sort of paused briefly, wrinkling our brows quizzically in her general direction and then filed out quietly, none of us completely comprehending the sudden verbal ejaculation. The effect was, I suppose, much like dealing with someone's crazy aunt Millie at Thanksgiving: no one quite knows when she'll blow, but when she does, it's just kind of sad and annoying and a little bit piteous.
And that was that. So we returned to Portland and ended the evening with slices of pie at a Shari's.
I'd probably explore another faux-haunted house. And, while not exactly cathartic--I didn't really emerge feeling as if I'd survived anything significant (except being in the midst of a thick soup of teenage hormones)--it was still an oddly entertaining & distracting experience. Even for a cynical & opinionated theater person like myself.
Boo.
