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

