As Halloween approaches, kids everywhere are buzzing with excitement over the prospect of being scared silly. My children have been relentless in their pleas for a visit to a haunted house—a rustic attraction complete with a spooky hayride and actors splattered in fake blood.
But I’m not keen on going. They might think I’m just being boring, but they don’t understand the real reason. Typical Halloween frights—zombies, witches, and chainsaw-wielding maniacs—hold no terror for me. What truly sends chills down my spine are much more relatable horrors.
In my mind, the ultimate haunted house wouldn’t feature the usual creepy crawlies. Instead, I envision something far more disturbing:
I step inside, greeted by a boy in a spaghetti-stained shirt and no pants, his face smudged with dirt. He bombards me with nonsensical questions and shouts of “Look at this, Mommy!” as I reluctantly enter the first room of dread.
This room is a nightmare, filled with political campaign workers sporting awful toupees. On a flickering screen, the worst political ads blare, spouting meaningless slogans and hollow promises. The workers claw at me, thrusting flyers into my trembling hands, begging me to support their candidate while disparaging the opponent. I stagger back, overwhelmed and unable to discern which candidate is the lesser evil.
Next, I find myself in a room where an episode of Caillou blares from a giant screen. My heart races as I realize I must solve 25 impossible Common Core math problems to escape.
The following room reveals a large bonfire, ignited by my unpublished manuscripts. A witch resembling my high school English teacher dances around, screeching about the horrors of grammar. Panic sets in as I question whether I used the Oxford comma correctly. Is that blood on her hands or just the ink from her red pen? I flee the room, screaming.
I then burst into a space filled with impeccably dressed women, their judgmental gazes piercing through my ragged jeans and mismatched shoes. An overly coiffed woman hisses to her friend about “that woman”—me. I brace myself for two hours of cucumber sandwiches and superficial chatter about the local garden club.
Finally, I stumble into a room where my youngest child is hunched over the sink, blasting Taylor Swift from my iPod. To my horror, she’s washing my fine china with reckless abandon! I call out to her, but she’s lost in the music, dropping one wine glass after another. As she reaches for my grandmother’s cherished gravy boat, I’m ushered out, wailing in despair.
That’s the true stuff of nightmares, dear children. You can keep your run-of-the-mill vampires and werewolves. If you really want to scare me, conjure up a haunted house like that, because nothing could frighten me more.
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Summary
As Halloween nears, a mother reflects on the true horrors of parenting, imagining a haunted house filled with relatable nightmares—from political ads to judgmental gatherings and chaos at home. It’s a humorous take on the real fears that keep moms up at night, far more terrifying than any ghost or goblin.