Updated: November 30, 2016
Originally Published: October 29, 2016
As Halloween approaches, children everywhere are excitedly seeking out spooky thrills. My kids have been begging me to take them to a haunted house—those countryside attractions featuring hayrides, actors covered in fake blood, and all sorts of jump scares.
I’d rather not go. They might think I’m being a spoil-sport, but the truth is, I’m not fazed by the usual Halloween frights. Creatures like zombies, witches, and axe murderers don’t rattle me. There are far more chilling scenarios out there, ones so unnerving they send shivers down my spine.
For me, the most terrifying haunted house wouldn’t involve chainsaws or eerie apparitions. Instead, I can envision something much worse:
I step inside, greeted by a boy in a spaghetti-stained shirt, clearly too small for him, and lacking pants. His face is smudged, and his hair is a chaotic mess, yet he feels perfectly presentable to welcome guests. This alarming child bombards me with nonsensical questions, yelling, “Look at this, Mommy!” as I tentatively peer into the first dreadful room.
This room is downright chilling, filled with political campaign workers sporting unfortunate toupees. Blasting in the background are the most poorly crafted political ads known to television, riddled with empty promises and clichéd slogans. The campaign workers claw at me, thrusting flyers into my trembling hands and imploring me to vote for their candidate while condemning the opponent. I stumble away, overwhelmed, unable to discern which candidate might be the lesser of two evils.
In the next room, I’m confronted by a loud television blaring an episode of Caillou. Panic sets in as I realize the only escape hinges on solving 25 impossible Common Core math problems.
Next, I enter a room with a large bonfire. To my horror, the flames are fed by my unpublished writing! Around the fire, a hideous witch dances, eerily reminiscent of my 10th-grade English teacher. As she twirls, she screeches about the perils of double negatives and prepositions at the end of sentences. I shudder, anxious to recall whether I’ve used the Oxford comma. Is that blood dripping from her hands or merely ink from her red pen? I flee the room, screaming.
I burst into a room filled with impeccably groomed women, their conversations halting as they turn to scrutinize me. Their judgmental gazes pierce through my worn jeans and untied sneakers. Suddenly, I’m painfully aware that my bag doesn’t match my shoes, sending me into a panic. One overly polished woman whispers to her designer-clad friend about “that woman.” Dread washes over me as I realize I’m stuck for the next two hours nibbling on cucumber sandwiches and feigning interest in garden club gossip.
Finally, I enter the last room to find my youngest hunched over the kitchen sink, blasting Taylor Swift from my iPod precariously perched on the wet counter. To my horror, she’s handwashing my fine china! I call out to her, but she’s lost in the music. She drops a wine glass, which shatters on my freshly mopped floor. Then another… and another. I watch in despair as she reaches for my grandmother’s gravy boat. I’m ushered out, wailing in dismay while she rolls her eyes, utterly unfazed.
That, my dear children, sums up the real horrors that invade my nightmares. You can keep your tame vampires and werewolves; if you want to truly terrify me, create a haunted house like this, for nothing would frighten me more.
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In summary, the scariest things aren’t the monsters we expect, but the everyday chaos of life that leaves us feeling unsettled.