Wednesday, September 16, 2015 // The Statement
7B
Personal Statement: Growing up in haunted houses
by Hailey Middlebrook, Daily Arts Writer
T
he haunted houses began with cardboard
boxes.
It was two weeks before my seventh
birthday, when my family still lived in our Lin-
coln Log home in Colorado. My dad brought
back a dozen shipping boxes, the long and skinny
kind that hold coat racks, just wide enough for
my friends and I to crawl through, tunnel-style.
I frowned as he disappeared into the basement,
ribbed cardboard knocking down the jack o’ lan-
terns I’d just set up. It was late October, a few
blustery nights before trick-or-treating; just close
enough to November fourth to throw my first Hal-
loween-themed birthday party.
My dad, a ghost story master and scary movie
fanatic, was hooked on Halloween. Maybe it was
because he’d met my mom at a Halloween party
when he was in law school and she in medical
school; she’d dressed as a baby and he was a boxer,
a “total knockout,” he would joke. Or maybe it was
the way mine and my younger sister’s eyes would
widen around the campfire as he told us about
the howling ghost dogs in the woods — when he’d
pause, our hearts thudding — and our mom would
sweep in on cue, tying up the story with a happy
bow. We’d snuggle in the tent, all warm bodies and
crickets, sleeping soundly with dreams of friendly
ghosts.
When I started planning my birthday party,
little organized queen that I was, I was strict with
my theme: spooky spiders, not friendly ghosts. As
a wizened first grader, I’d seen my fair share of
scary things. I’d ridden the Haunted Mansion ride
at Disney World. The scarier the haunted house,
I decided, the more fun the party was. And so it
began.
****
Eleven years later, orange lights bobbed in the
mist as we made our way to the castle-house on the
hill. My heels clicked on the concrete, calf-high
leather, the closest thing to cowboy boots I could
find in my dorm room trunk. I’d linked arms with
my friend, another freshman in West Quad, our
matching tied-up flannels and cutoffs brushing
with each step. Cute cowgirl: instant Halloween
party costume.
The castle was packed. A thick fog of smoke
and body heat made faces hazy, their movements
blurred and jaunty, like the final room of our
haunted house: Zombie hiding in corner, strobe
lights, FOG MACHINE! Except these zombies
were different — all lumberjacks and bunnies and
cats, laughing too loudly and staggering to the
beat of Rihanna. Alive. Friendly ghosts, as long as
you didn’t get too close. The “no touching” policy
didn’t apply to this haunted house.
****
When I outgrew the cardboard boxes, around
middle school, our garage became the new haunt-
ed house. The construction would begin in early
October: bendy boards of plywood, stapled togeth-
er in a narrow maze, covered in black sheets of
plastic.
The scent of plastic stayed with me, even after
we packed away decorations. Even after the season
changed, the years passed, my new home became
a dorm room. My college roommate baked banana
bread because it smelled like home; I lingered
unknowingly by hardware shops. The chemical
smell always stopped me, slinging me back to fall,
to my family, to our haunted house kingdom.
Designing the house was my favorite part. The
plan was simple: I’d bring my friends to the side
door of the garage (where I’d pause, to heighten
anticipation), then enter the main room, occu-
pied by a haggard skeleton in a rocking chair and
a phony chandelier, creepy music overhead. We’d
twist through the dark plastic walls, shrieking
from my dad and brother jumping out of corners,
their faces hidden by masks. The last room was
thick with smoke and strobe lights; and my broth-
er, suddenly lunging from the fog.
Screaming, scrambling, we’d bolt through the
front door into my mom’s candlelit living room,
surrendering to the smells of freshly baked carrot
cake and caramel apples. Sugar smeared on our
fingers, we’d tell each other ghost stories, giggling
to prove we were brave.
****
Our laughter pierced the quiet in Jess’s apart-
ment, its shrillness wafting up and out of the balco-
ny doors. It was our last night together as summer
interns; but really we were celebrating Jess, who’d
already graduated and landed a full-time job as
the magazine’s art editor. While three of us were
heading back to college for our senior years, Jess
would stay here, alone in her brand-new life.
The furniture wouldn’t be here for a week, when
her parents could drive it up. Empty, the room was
massive, smelling of plastic sheets. Cardboard
boxes towered in the corner like hulking monsters,
casting shadows over our huddled circle on the
floor. We sipped wine from Dixie cups and talked
about the future.
“Are you scared?” I asked Jess, the question
burning the tip of my tongue.
“All the time,” she said after a minute; the room
hushed. Fingers clenched around Dixie cups.
“Right now, I have a job, an apartment, a boy-
friend. But a year from now, that could all change.
Don’t know what’s around the corner, ya know?”
I watched the red wine swirl in my cup, like the
fake blood I used to paint on my brother’s face. The
floor creaked in the silence, eerie and empty. But
Jess’s apartment wasn’t so much haunted as it was
waiting, testing her. Weeding out the screamers,
leaving the brave alone. I realized then that the
real haunted houses in life can’t be designed, their
twists mapped out and surprise scares planned.
They don’t always stick to the theme, your vision,
no matter how organized you are.
I don’t build haunted houses anymore. But I’m
learning to feel my way through the dark.
ILLUSTRATION BY CHERYLL VICTUELLES