Break A Leg

This is my place. I have a T-shaped hallway, though only the top crossbar and the very bottom of the T are ever meant to be seen. The colors hardly matter, as my vision shows in gray.

The lighting here is predominantly green, save for the comforting red glow of the EXIT sign that hangs overhead.

I'm tucked into an invisible corner, writing by glowstick. I have a minimum of costuming, consisting of a plain, tattered, hooded black robe. This, and simple black-and-white face paint, mark me as an actor.

I have no fancy props, not even a nearby animatron.

"Make it scary," they tell me. "Startle them." So, I do.

The first of the two wholly independent spots they expect me to hold is a simple wooden fence, rather broken - one plank missing entirely, another snapped off at the top and hanging by a single screw. A little demonic bust is impaled on a third, and there's nothing especially un-fence-like about the other four. From my hidden corner, I can see partway up the hallway that comes before me. It is utterly barren, save for a door that can no longer be opened, with a large, flat, styrofoam skull nailed to it, some pipe-work that may or may not still function, and two distressed skeletons, hanging by their arms and resting on their knees.

My area is lovingly misnamed a cemetery, for the skulls and shattered tombstones that litter a cold, cement floor only partially obscured by ragged, twisted, clothy blankets, masquerading for a time as rugs and tripping hazards.

Across from the fence is the centerpiece of my area - a massive stone that reads H. Delbruck, while above it hangs Mr. D. himself, sadly without his legs. Atop his tombstone is an inverted V I have been assured is not a spider's leg, but rather a skeleton's arm, the rest of his body too dark to see.

Beside Mr. Delbruck's stone stands my fellow gravekeeper, a withered old man in a bowler hat and a long, muddy coat. His left hand rests eternally on the topmost of his twin belts, and a cigar droops from his lips, teeth bared in a wide, macabre grin.

The wall behind him is obscured by a ropey net. Though I can barely see the pipes behind the netting, I know they extend into the room itself from the hallway.

To the right of H.D.'s tomb stands a sawed-off tree stump, probably plastic, a skull resting atop it. Behind that stands a much-abused Christmas tree, undecorated. It's easy to miss, probably there only to lend an organic feel to that corner. Anything to hide the fact that it's indoors.

To my right stands a "stone" figure, cowled and holding what appears to be a carving of a corpse. Some kind of Death personification, perhaps.

Down the hallway no one else may travel, a line of gravestones stand on the right, while a massive, rubber rat (rats? I hate rats. They drive me crazy - ) lies curled up on the left.

At the very end of the hallway stands another set of tombs, the names impossible to make out. A demonic bust here, too, is found, this one life-sized as though it were trying to claw its way out of the ground. A "tree" rises behind this bust, while on the floor lies a a chain, next to a sadly-headless skeleton.

Between the rat and the demon are the twin archways. One is open, to the left, and it leads out of the haunted house. Fresh air occasionally blows in from that direction. The other is covered by an opaque, shiny black curtain made from five thick sheets of plastic.

I wait in my hidden corner for my first cue.

Somewhat distantly, I can hear Brain-Guy and Hook-Guy from Mom's spot, their cries almost inaudible for the high dentist-drill whine of the chainsaw.

About five minutes, then.

I hear, during a brief lull in the loud ambiance-fueling music, the old-school video projector sound of some kind of air machine whirring to life.

A moaning wail - just part of the music. Giggles punctuated by shrieks is a different part - the human part.

Still waiting.

The Shaking-Man alerts me, with his hydraulic-fueled thrashing.

Two hallways, barely a minute away.

Loud rattles as a group of feet trample a catwalk. It's from the other haunted house; irrelevant to me.

The second high whir of the chainsaw means it's time to stand up, as our fine patrons discuss their most recent experience and just how much they dislike chainsaws.

Their shadows creep across the wall, then the skeletons, until I actually see one.

I've learned to wait to jump out.

The first four dutifully yelp, and dart to the left, through another plastic curtain.

The last two are somewhat more distant, the man holding an obviously intoxicated woman off the ground.

Fun, I think sarcastically.

I do my level best to scare these two, already knowing it's hopeless.

"Look," the man exclaims. "He wants a kiss!" It isn't very obvious in this dress, but I really am a natural female, boobs and all.

The man drags the woman over, presumably for her kiss.

I growl out, voice already ragged, "No touching!" Naturally, she grabs for me, pouting when I dodge away, still growling.

Eventually they turn away, and inaudibly, I mutter a curse. I don't even like drunks at parties. That's part of why I rarely attend parties.

Time passes, as does another, less obnoxious group.

"Chainsaw, chainsaw!" echoes from the exit, as a group from the other house finishes their trek.

No, really? I think, still a bit annoyed. The man at the exit has a chainsaw that runs on gas, and an angry roar escapes it.

Delighted screams of fear follow.

I hear another roar, then, followed by the a slightly different tempo to the battering, a slightly different tin wall. Yelling, indistinct at this distance, accompanies it. Minute and a half.

A handful of seconds later, there's a bang, and the Shaking-Man begins his inarticulate rant.

Fuck.

You see, I am incapable of teleporting. Even if I could, I can't be two places at once ... and now I need to be. Fifteen feet. I can cross it in five steps, about two seconds.

First scare's more important. Barren hallway. Doll Chick doesn't really have the talent either - there's a reason I didn't mention her earlier; she never does anything. She creeps me out, but for reasons that have nothing to do with actually doing her damn job.

It's a split-second decision, which place I choose, and I lunge out a little early. Still scare them though. It's a group of maybe ten, so I back up a bit, lunge again.

Demonic roar, metal on bone on metal.

In my rush to be there now, I trip over the cloth and nearly faceplant on the rat. I have time, only barely.

I yell something incoherent at the person pushing through the plastic curtain, and he jumps. I lean to the right a bit, so he and his can pass.

Drunk Chick is now behind Tall Guy, and it's satisfying to see her cringe away now.

Half of them tripped on the slight drop, so as they ascend the staircase to freedom, I growl a loud, vindictive, "Watch your step!"

Doubt any of them heard.

"Chainsaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwww!!!"

I hate my job.