A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the For- Um- Haunted House

   Warning: this is the first of- no doubt- many haunted house related blogs. I apologize ahead of time to all of you who do not approve. Who am I kidding? No, I do not.

   This is the time of year when my entire life revolves around and is sucked into the void of 'THE' haunted house. And I am not one to suffer in silence. I will take as many of you with me as I can…

   My busy life gets shoved aside, whether I want it to or not (heavy emphasis on the not), and I find myself juggling my job, my writing, my blogging, my extra-curricular activities, (choir folks- choir- get your minds out of the gutter!), and my houses. Yes, houses plural. Or is that hice? You know- mouse-mice, house-hice? No matter, I have decided- I hereby invent the word hice. The hice to which I am referring are my home house and the haunted house.

   Yep, that's right, haunted.

   I am not necessarily the biggest Halloween fan in the world- Christmas is more my holiday- give me a tree and some twinkling lights and I am a happy girl. Alas, I happen to be married to a Halloween enthusiast. A man who lives, eats and breathes all things spooky. He reveres Halloween in a way that makes Linus's yearly vigil for the Great Pumpkin look weak. My husband is devoted to each and every aspect of the holiday: from the gory ghosts and the gruesome goblins, to the menacing maniacs in the monster movies and the jaw-dropping jack o' lanterns on doorsteps. He collects spooky skulls and spine-tingling skeletons and does not shy away from those things that go bump in the night. (Which is usually me anyway…)

   And of course, he lives for the haunting of the houses- er- hice. He is passionate in a way that borders on obsession. Actually, his passion doesn't so much border on obsession as it encroaches and invades it. It sneaks up on it, tackles it, holds it down and gives it noogies until it can't breathe- just like your big brother. And there is no crying uncle.

   His obsession requires hours- make that months- of professional intervention, the type which we cannot afford. And so, my husband talks Halloween six hundred and sixty-six days of the year. (Yeah, I know there are not that many days in the year, but trust me, it feels like it sometimes- besides- the number worked.)

For this reason, when that hunk-o-man of mine (who during Halloween strongly resembles the Unabomber and is proud of it) came to me with the idea of building a haunted house, I was not surprised. What did surprise me however, was exactly how much of my own blood, sweat and tears would go into this creation. I have personally painted each and every wall panel in the haunt (of which there are thousands- okay maybe only hundreds- but you sort of lose count after the first ninety). I have put my interior decorating skills (or lack thereof) into the haunted décor of each and every room. I have taken pride in finding some of the ugliest pieces of furniture known to mankind to add "just the right touch" to the final product. I have rejoiced in the repulsive, reveled in the revolting, roistered in the repellent. Yes- it frightens even me. I may need an intervention of my own.

   My partner in crime (or should I say 'grime'?), is a friend who is the Lucy to my Ethel and who has helped me every step of the way. She is the go to girl when it comes to façade painting and is willing to do almost anything I suggest. For example:

   Ethel (me- pay attention): So, Lucy, what do you think about, say, um, painting a block wall façade in the laboratory (yes, pronounce it the Frankensteinian fashion please- la-bore-a-tore-ee- this is a blog about Halloween after all). It will only involve sixteen different colors of paint in eight layers and a final wash. Say, about, oh, I don’t know, thirty-six hours of work, give or take. And the fans will see it for all of about thirty seconds. Sound good?

   Lucy: So, what you're saying is: it's a complete waste of our time, right?

   Ethel: Pretty much.

   Lucy: Cool! Let's do it!

   If you think I exaggerate, ask Lucy- she'll set you straight.

   At last count, we have collectively painted over seven thousand bricks, four thousand plus rocks, hundreds of mathematical and scientific calculations (none of which make any sense to me and all of which hurt my head in the colossal migraine leaking out your ears kind of way), and one lab wall which took three days.

   Awesome.

   And then there's the blood. (Hey, only some of it is real- you can't bleed buckets and survive, so paint has to come into play at least once in awhile.) This time of year our hands are permanently stained a rainbow of colors, the worst of which is the red. It gets into our knuckles, under our nails and even stains our cuticles. It looks as if we have engaged in the cold blooded killings of many formerly live beings previously filled to the brim with platelets and plasma. (As tempting as that may be, especially considering we know where to hide the bodies, we have not.)

   There have also been some incidents of paint splattering that stained clothing and hair- and not all of it has been accidental in nature. Naturally, it's always Lucy who stirs up the trouble. But I keep her around, 'cause, hey, where else can I find someone fool enough to say, "Sure! No problem!" when I say, "Hey, whattaya think about painting another five hundred bricks over here?"

   I am also the proud (I use the term loosely) owner of my very own graveyard. Step out my back door and you'll see it. It ain't small. It's kind of hard to ignore. It contains numerous graves marked with tombstones- some elaborate and some quite plain- and two full-sized crypts. I believe all are unoccupied. (Here's to hoping!) It's a nice quiet place to have your morning coffee…

   Over the years that we have run the haunt we have been asked countless times if it's a real cemetery. We have also been asked how long ago the asylum was closed. You know- the asylum- in the barn. Now I love the fact that people buy into the façade so much that they think it's all real, but at the same time I can't help but to wonder- huh? I'm never really certain how to answer these questions. I'm always tempted to say, "Well, since it's a BARN, I think mad cow disease was more prevalent than mad people…" Or, the ever popular, "The asylum was closed NEVER, 'cause, duh!" But these responses (I was told) were considered rude. So instead I went with, "Um- well- uh- hmmm… You know this isn't real, right?"

   We've also had any number of people ask us (while purchasing tickets), "Is it scary?"

   Let me think about this.

   No.

   No, it is not scary at all. In fact, walking through the haunt is much the same experience as tip-toeing through a field of wild flowers, whilst puffy clouds float over your head and purple, sparkling unicorns prance merrily by. We call it The Edge of Insanity, 'cause, well, we liked the name…