“‘Oh my god, it’s eating my brain!’
“‘This is not the job that was advertised,’ I said.
“‘Help me!’ the professor cried.
“‘Okay, but...’
“‘Now!’
“‘Keep up that attitude you can save yourself.’
“The professor’s head exploded. His body fell. He looked like a kowtowing ragdoll. The remains of his head slumped to one side, a spectral serpent coiled inside the burst skull.
“One of the graduate students whispered, ‘What do we do?’
“The ghost snake hissed at me.
“I threw up my hands, ‘I’m out. I’m done. I quit.’
“As I walked out of the haunted mansion I could hear the students screaming. Glancing back I saw blood thump-splat across a window. A grad student jumped through the glass, but the ghost snake, now grown to anaconda proportions darted out, snagging her in midair, and pulled her back inside.
“Shaking my head I said, ‘Well, not everybody’s cut out for academia.’”
From the back of the crowd a teenager shouted, “Bullshit. This guy’s full of shit.”
I sighed. There’s one every evening. My glare parted the audience leaving me with a straight line of sight to the teen.
I said, “It’s good to be skeptical. How about you come see this picture then?”
I waved my phone at him. Smugly he approached where I sat. I patted the bale of hay as I scooted aside allowing room for the boy. He snatched the phone out of my hand.
“What am I looking at?”
“Can’t you tell?”
He frowned, “It looks like a blurry room like in a basement.”
“Look closer.” I licked my lips. He held the screen closer. When it got about an inch away I swiftly smacked the phone into his face.
Dropping the phone he jumped up shouting, “Ow! What the hell?”
The audience laughed. As the kid stormed off I saw his friends already swarming to mock him. Picking up my phone I noted the time.
“Hey everybody, the hayride starts up in a minute. So if you’re inclined I recommend heading that way.”
The crowd dispersed, some to the hayride, others to elsewhere. Those who went elsewhere soon found themselves getting scared by costumed haunters. Spook crew members leapt from behind piles of pumpkins, bales of hay, or from around buildings. Delighted shrieks of terror echoed all over the pumpkin patch, and on occasion those who fled from the hired ghouls found themselves chased for a bit.
A group of young kids ran screaming from a fiendish scarecrow, who angled away from them to trouble me for a cigarette.
Handing Jessica a smoke I said, “Almost quitting time.”
She sighed a cloud, “Not soon enough. How’s my makeup?”
“A little runny, but it’s creepier that way.”
She shrugged, “I guess.” The sound of the tractor starting caught her attention. Perking up she said, “Hayride. I gotta go.”
Tossing her cigarette away she bolted. I couldn't help smiling. Like many of the employees here, especially the couple of teenagers, she treated this job like the only time she got to openly be herself.
Jessica liked to lurk in the cornfield as the hayride passed by. She placed herself towards the end, an ear pricked to catch anyone complaining about being bored. Target acquired she leapt onto the side of the cart, letting loose a banshee wail. So far she got one kid to piss his pants, thereby earning management’s approval.
Watching her sprint away infected me with her enthusiasm. I decided to finish the night in the corn maze. Stomping out her cigarette – fire hazard – I headed to the entrance of Daphne’s Diabolic Corn Maze, part of Wilson’s Pandemonium Pumpkin Patch.
As usual I stumbled into the job unintentionally. Over drinks and darts a fellow informed me his aunt ran a spooky corn maze about an hour outside Chicago. Planning to pump in unsettling sounds, she needed help installing audio equipment. I possessed the skills she needed given my previous, albeit brief stint working the recording gear for a professor and his ghost hunting crew of misfit grad students. (Never mind that that gig ended badly because I didn’t fail to do my job. I recorded everything, right on down to the professor’s head exploding -- pop.)
But I took the job in the pumpkin patch because it sounded fun. Not many employment opportunities grant that perk. Plus, it seemed like a short gig. However, setting up the sound equipment led to me lending a hand building sets which turned into other offers.
By the time we opened for Halloween season I founded myself working the concessions stand, spooking folks in the corn maze, and by direct request of the pumpkin queen, Aunt Daphne Wilson, occasionally telling scary stories to small crowds. Not everyone gets to terrorize people without having to deal with real life consequences. Chase a couple kids down the street with a chainsaw; well, the police are liable to shoot such a person. But here in the Pandemonium Pumpkin Patch I could do just that, and get paid to do so. Sometimes folks even thanked me for terrifying them.
As such I occasionally thought, “This must be what it’s like to be a priest.”
Carried by a crisp cool breeze, the aroma of deep fried dough wafted through the air. Clusters of teenagers moped everywhere like globs of apathy. Young children giggled, picking out pumpkins with their parents. Machines out in the corn quietly, steadily fumed columns of faux fog that made the field seem to be on a smoldering hell-mouth. The fog rolled across the grounds, shrouding the floodlights in a cinematic manner. Nearing midnight, it felt like any horror could be possible.
A banshee wail cut through the quiet. Customers flinched. Employees all acquired knowing smirks: Jessica the scarecrow struck again.
Three fiendish haunters presided over the entrance to the maze. Glenn, a psycho hobo covered in smeared blood, Frank, a classic killer clown, and Allison, a teddy bear with a skinned face. Frank irregularly burst into hyena-like cachinnations, while Allison softly growled, holding up her face-skin with a cutesy, blood stained paw. They flanked customers, herding them into a loose line by the maze’s entrance.
Flashing a wide grin full of scummy teeth Glenn stood at the opening in the corn. In a gravelly voice he announced the rules, “Listen closely. None of our performers will touch you, so please return the favor – do not touch them. Stay on the path at all times. No running. No flashlights. No photography. No hope, all ye who enter here; you four come on now into the hell that awaits.”
And so another bunch entered the maze. The giggling pack of pre-teens could soon be heard shouting in happy horror.
Nearing Glenn I overheard him mutter, “Why’s that always get my dick hard?”
It’s a certain kind of person who goes in for hired spooking. The pay is not great. The hours often feel longer than they are. It requires enduring heaps of boredom and scorn. There’s always someone unimpressed enough to feel the need to tell a ghoul it isn’t frightening; and it takes fortitude not to turn the moment then and there into a real horror show. If I had a dollar for every smartass I didn’t stab – I may have choked a few while shouting, “It’s all make-believe,” but they got out alive. Like any kind of performance art it’s a job devoted to those brief shining moments when the screams are real, or a customer’s eyes are smiling.
Glenn, Allison, and Frank belonged to rare breed of performers. They toured the country in an RV, cruising from seasonal gig to seasonal gig. In the summer they did Renaissance Faires, haunted houses in the Fall, and Christmas towns in Winter. In-between they auditioned for any local plays, and even staged what they called “guerilla theatre” by simply tossing down a cap, and performing scenes for whatever coins came their way.
Allison told me three times, “We’re on the subway in New York, started doing Hamlet, and next thing I know – no joke – we’ve done the whole play. And what with it being just like the three of us, it got kind of schizo, but fucking fun.”
That last bit sums up the average hired haunter: kind of schizo, but fucking fun. After all, it’s madness to stand silently in the darkness, waiting patiently to step out of the shadows for all of a second hoping your audience will hurry from you screaming because in the end they aren’t meant to stand in silent appreciation of one’s portrayal of a zombie, slasher, swamp hag, ghost, demon, etc. The goal is to be an unwelcome presence safely encountered like the police.
Working here reminded me of the first time I went to a concert. I felt surrounded by like minded folks. For some belonging is a rare feeling, and in this place the scare-makers and horror hounds truly belonged. Back in the everyday ordinary world wearing corpse paint to a the grocery store gets odd looks, maybe even the manager asks a fellow to leave the store even though he's just buying the fixings for risotto -- I will get revenge on that store, mark my words -- but in the Pandemonium Pumpkin Patch the freaks rule.
I asked Glenn, “How’s the night?”
He shrugged, “We got a few left then we’re shutting down. You comin’ by later?”
Glenn and company stayed on the grounds, camping out of their RV. On occasion we stayed up for hours afterward swapping stories, passing a bottle around a campfire, and enjoying the rural silence.
“I might. I’m gonna duck in, cause a few scares.”
Frank said, “Try not to be a dick.”
“I’m only a dick to the dicks.”
Frank nodded, “Yeah, but when you dragged that guy into the middle of the cornfield...”
Cutting him off, “I got lost too.”
“Not the point,” Frank said.
I added, “He slapped a living doll. Those ladies aren’t older than fifteen.”
Glenn interjected, “You both got good points. I think where Frank is going, though, is ’s been a quiet evenin’. We wanna keep it that way.”
Sighing I conceded, “Fair enough.”
"Alright then." Glenn stepped aside, "In ya go."
So I went into the maze.
“‘This is not the job that was advertised,’ I said.
“‘Help me!’ the professor cried.
“‘Okay, but...’
“‘Now!’
“‘Keep up that attitude you can save yourself.’
“The professor’s head exploded. His body fell. He looked like a kowtowing ragdoll. The remains of his head slumped to one side, a spectral serpent coiled inside the burst skull.
“One of the graduate students whispered, ‘What do we do?’
“The ghost snake hissed at me.
“I threw up my hands, ‘I’m out. I’m done. I quit.’
“As I walked out of the haunted mansion I could hear the students screaming. Glancing back I saw blood thump-splat across a window. A grad student jumped through the glass, but the ghost snake, now grown to anaconda proportions darted out, snagging her in midair, and pulled her back inside.
“Shaking my head I said, ‘Well, not everybody’s cut out for academia.’”
From the back of the crowd a teenager shouted, “Bullshit. This guy’s full of shit.”
I sighed. There’s one every evening. My glare parted the audience leaving me with a straight line of sight to the teen.
I said, “It’s good to be skeptical. How about you come see this picture then?”
I waved my phone at him. Smugly he approached where I sat. I patted the bale of hay as I scooted aside allowing room for the boy. He snatched the phone out of my hand.
“What am I looking at?”
“Can’t you tell?”
He frowned, “It looks like a blurry room like in a basement.”
“Look closer.” I licked my lips. He held the screen closer. When it got about an inch away I swiftly smacked the phone into his face.
Dropping the phone he jumped up shouting, “Ow! What the hell?”
The audience laughed. As the kid stormed off I saw his friends already swarming to mock him. Picking up my phone I noted the time.
“Hey everybody, the hayride starts up in a minute. So if you’re inclined I recommend heading that way.”
The crowd dispersed, some to the hayride, others to elsewhere. Those who went elsewhere soon found themselves getting scared by costumed haunters. Spook crew members leapt from behind piles of pumpkins, bales of hay, or from around buildings. Delighted shrieks of terror echoed all over the pumpkin patch, and on occasion those who fled from the hired ghouls found themselves chased for a bit.
A group of young kids ran screaming from a fiendish scarecrow, who angled away from them to trouble me for a cigarette.
Handing Jessica a smoke I said, “Almost quitting time.”
She sighed a cloud, “Not soon enough. How’s my makeup?”
“A little runny, but it’s creepier that way.”
She shrugged, “I guess.” The sound of the tractor starting caught her attention. Perking up she said, “Hayride. I gotta go.”
Tossing her cigarette away she bolted. I couldn't help smiling. Like many of the employees here, especially the couple of teenagers, she treated this job like the only time she got to openly be herself.
Jessica liked to lurk in the cornfield as the hayride passed by. She placed herself towards the end, an ear pricked to catch anyone complaining about being bored. Target acquired she leapt onto the side of the cart, letting loose a banshee wail. So far she got one kid to piss his pants, thereby earning management’s approval.
Watching her sprint away infected me with her enthusiasm. I decided to finish the night in the corn maze. Stomping out her cigarette – fire hazard – I headed to the entrance of Daphne’s Diabolic Corn Maze, part of Wilson’s Pandemonium Pumpkin Patch.
As usual I stumbled into the job unintentionally. Over drinks and darts a fellow informed me his aunt ran a spooky corn maze about an hour outside Chicago. Planning to pump in unsettling sounds, she needed help installing audio equipment. I possessed the skills she needed given my previous, albeit brief stint working the recording gear for a professor and his ghost hunting crew of misfit grad students. (Never mind that that gig ended badly because I didn’t fail to do my job. I recorded everything, right on down to the professor’s head exploding -- pop.)
But I took the job in the pumpkin patch because it sounded fun. Not many employment opportunities grant that perk. Plus, it seemed like a short gig. However, setting up the sound equipment led to me lending a hand building sets which turned into other offers.
By the time we opened for Halloween season I founded myself working the concessions stand, spooking folks in the corn maze, and by direct request of the pumpkin queen, Aunt Daphne Wilson, occasionally telling scary stories to small crowds. Not everyone gets to terrorize people without having to deal with real life consequences. Chase a couple kids down the street with a chainsaw; well, the police are liable to shoot such a person. But here in the Pandemonium Pumpkin Patch I could do just that, and get paid to do so. Sometimes folks even thanked me for terrifying them.
As such I occasionally thought, “This must be what it’s like to be a priest.”
Carried by a crisp cool breeze, the aroma of deep fried dough wafted through the air. Clusters of teenagers moped everywhere like globs of apathy. Young children giggled, picking out pumpkins with their parents. Machines out in the corn quietly, steadily fumed columns of faux fog that made the field seem to be on a smoldering hell-mouth. The fog rolled across the grounds, shrouding the floodlights in a cinematic manner. Nearing midnight, it felt like any horror could be possible.
A banshee wail cut through the quiet. Customers flinched. Employees all acquired knowing smirks: Jessica the scarecrow struck again.
Three fiendish haunters presided over the entrance to the maze. Glenn, a psycho hobo covered in smeared blood, Frank, a classic killer clown, and Allison, a teddy bear with a skinned face. Frank irregularly burst into hyena-like cachinnations, while Allison softly growled, holding up her face-skin with a cutesy, blood stained paw. They flanked customers, herding them into a loose line by the maze’s entrance.
Flashing a wide grin full of scummy teeth Glenn stood at the opening in the corn. In a gravelly voice he announced the rules, “Listen closely. None of our performers will touch you, so please return the favor – do not touch them. Stay on the path at all times. No running. No flashlights. No photography. No hope, all ye who enter here; you four come on now into the hell that awaits.”
And so another bunch entered the maze. The giggling pack of pre-teens could soon be heard shouting in happy horror.
Nearing Glenn I overheard him mutter, “Why’s that always get my dick hard?”
It’s a certain kind of person who goes in for hired spooking. The pay is not great. The hours often feel longer than they are. It requires enduring heaps of boredom and scorn. There’s always someone unimpressed enough to feel the need to tell a ghoul it isn’t frightening; and it takes fortitude not to turn the moment then and there into a real horror show. If I had a dollar for every smartass I didn’t stab – I may have choked a few while shouting, “It’s all make-believe,” but they got out alive. Like any kind of performance art it’s a job devoted to those brief shining moments when the screams are real, or a customer’s eyes are smiling.
Glenn, Allison, and Frank belonged to rare breed of performers. They toured the country in an RV, cruising from seasonal gig to seasonal gig. In the summer they did Renaissance Faires, haunted houses in the Fall, and Christmas towns in Winter. In-between they auditioned for any local plays, and even staged what they called “guerilla theatre” by simply tossing down a cap, and performing scenes for whatever coins came their way.
Allison told me three times, “We’re on the subway in New York, started doing Hamlet, and next thing I know – no joke – we’ve done the whole play. And what with it being just like the three of us, it got kind of schizo, but fucking fun.”
That last bit sums up the average hired haunter: kind of schizo, but fucking fun. After all, it’s madness to stand silently in the darkness, waiting patiently to step out of the shadows for all of a second hoping your audience will hurry from you screaming because in the end they aren’t meant to stand in silent appreciation of one’s portrayal of a zombie, slasher, swamp hag, ghost, demon, etc. The goal is to be an unwelcome presence safely encountered like the police.
Working here reminded me of the first time I went to a concert. I felt surrounded by like minded folks. For some belonging is a rare feeling, and in this place the scare-makers and horror hounds truly belonged. Back in the everyday ordinary world wearing corpse paint to a the grocery store gets odd looks, maybe even the manager asks a fellow to leave the store even though he's just buying the fixings for risotto -- I will get revenge on that store, mark my words -- but in the Pandemonium Pumpkin Patch the freaks rule.
I asked Glenn, “How’s the night?”
He shrugged, “We got a few left then we’re shutting down. You comin’ by later?”
Glenn and company stayed on the grounds, camping out of their RV. On occasion we stayed up for hours afterward swapping stories, passing a bottle around a campfire, and enjoying the rural silence.
“I might. I’m gonna duck in, cause a few scares.”
Frank said, “Try not to be a dick.”
“I’m only a dick to the dicks.”
Frank nodded, “Yeah, but when you dragged that guy into the middle of the cornfield...”
Cutting him off, “I got lost too.”
“Not the point,” Frank said.
I added, “He slapped a living doll. Those ladies aren’t older than fifteen.”
Glenn interjected, “You both got good points. I think where Frank is going, though, is ’s been a quiet evenin’. We wanna keep it that way.”
Sighing I conceded, “Fair enough.”
"Alright then." Glenn stepped aside, "In ya go."
So I went into the maze.
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