Growing up, my Halloween memories are filled with carving fat, orange pumpkins at the kitchen table with my sisters; popping honey-flavored candy corn until I got sick to my stomach; wandering through windy mazes made from cornstalks under crisp blue autumn skies; and haunted hayrides under a shining full moon complete with masked teenage boys jumping out of trees to scare teenage girls.
So when I saw an advertisement in the subway for a haunted house in the in the East Village, I just had to go. I waited in line with all the anticipation of a 5-year old kid about to hit the Halloween-candy jackpot. But, once inside, it wasn’t as thrilling as I’d imagined. Basically, a bunch of people were led through the dark as weirdos like this dude jumped out at you every second so it became expected instead of shocking, water guns skirted us in the eyes and soaked our shirts, and flashing lights were enough to trigger a severe migraine.
The whole time we were on the tour, one little boy kept screaming, “Oh God, I’m going to throw up!” My sentiments exactly, kid.