The smell of burning fog juice
A long time ago, your old pal Spooky did some spooking at the Culbertson Mansion haunted house in New Albany. I still have my long-sleeved “Staff” T-shirt that I unpack every Fall and proudly wear. Of course, since marriage obviously agrees with me, that shirt is getting a little stretched out. (That’s why we joined the Y last week)
Anyway, I’ve done my time in a 90-degree fog-filled room under the unremitting, brain-frying flash of a strobe light, throat raw, waiting for the next group of sheep to come shuffling through. Waiting. Sitting. Makeup stinging my eyes. Booming soundtrack looping over and over. Drone … drone … drone … hiss … buzz …
Peppered throughout the long stretches of intense boredom, however, came those short instances of unadulterated fun when the marks came along and we made them jump out of their skins. That makes up for a lot of sore throats and stiff joints. And besides, getting to go behind the scenes of any haunted house is just joy.
It’s been a long time, and I’ve missed the feeling of involvement if not the smell of burning fog juice. Funny how these things work out. Completely separate events have led to my happy entanglement in two different haunts this year. God’s idea for getting me out to meet new and interesting people, I guess.
