You may ask, “What is a good boy like me doing at the Mountain of Terror?”
Well, it was a cool evening in October, and through an internet radio station, I had won tickets to attend a haunted house attraction called (big echoey voice) the Mountain of Terror. When the date had finally arrived, my wife and I, along with several of my misfit pals, piled into my car and drove deep into the forest.
As we neared it, we came upon a dirt road with deep trenches and tall pines lining either side. It was so foreboding. I should’ve been scared, especially now that dusk was near. Soon, strange people in makeup, costumes and masks (OH MY) would do their best to frighten me. I wasn’t the least bit frightened unfortunately. At the time, I felt there was no possible way these persons could scare me because not only was I a US Army Veteran, but I was also a veteran of working at haunted house attractions when I was in high school. (“Hi, Spookywoods! Still love you, guys.”)
I remember having so much fun scaring people, which was why I would do my best to make them think I was the biggest fraidy cat they’d ever seen. Yes, those who were hoping beyond hope to scare somebody, anybody, would get their wish from me that night, especially with the crew that joined me; they too were veterans of haunted house attractions. Not only were we going to have ourselves a good time, so were those who worked there, because we were willing to go there. To be scared or not to be scared was not a question. Not everyone would be pleased though, I guess. We’ll get to the security guard later.
I think the only one who didn’t run as cowardly as a particular lion, who lived along a particular yellow brick road, was my wife. I believe she was amused and possibly wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into by marrying me. After all, out of all of us, I was the worst and I’ll illustrate why.
Near the end of the extremely scary haunted house was a dreadful maze full of nightmare-inducing scares and props. Should you endure it, you’ll find a slide and finally escape the (big echoey voice) Mountain of Terror! My friends found the slides rather easily, but not me. I was so overwhelmed with fear that I kept fleeing back the way I had come. Sometimes I’d find myself at one of the very few dead ends, clawing at the wall begging for someone to help me. If I remember right, I think the guy with the chainsaw or maybe the axe kept telling me where I’d find the exit, but what can I say? (shrug) You’re Welcome!
At some point, my wife was no longer amused, but I couldn’t just break character. I’d come this far being the biggest fraidy cat this place had ever seen, and there was no way on earth I was going to give up on that now. My friends were all laughing at me as I bravely struggled through the simple maze. It took a long while but my wife eventually dragged me toward the correct path that led to our escape. At the time, I was frozen with fear because someone in a werewolf costume (it may have been a scary clown but same difference) was slowly approaching. I pretended to try and escape my wife’s grip and flee back toward the entrance but thankfully my wife, my hero, finally, saved me.
Just before going down the slide I remember getting a strange look from someone who worked there. She made sure that people went down the slide safely. Good call, Mountain of Terror safety officer. Everything about the look on her face told me, they had bought my act, hook, line, and sinker. I missed my calling as an actor. We all slid down the slide in very good spirits. Although none of us were really scared, we had a blast pretending. Attendance was low at that particular time, so in a way it was like our own gigantic funhouse. No doubt, the actors were ready to get more scares after our shenanigans.
“But Bryan what about the security guard.”
(This is where the story begins. Don’t worry it’ll be short.)
On our way back to the car, a tall and very fit security guard stood with a walkie talkie, flashlight, and who knows what else on his utility belt. He was what I would call “well-prepared”. He called to us while we were leaving.
“Hey when you pull out be sure to turn left,” he pointed to the very obvious exit where no cars were coming in. There was also a large wooden sign with EXIT spray-painted in black, and it was accompanied by a floodlight which casted brilliant light on its surface. Good job traffic controller person, even passing airplanes would know how to escape the Mountain of Terror. “If you don’t turn left,” he continued. “you’ll head straight to the traffic coming in. OK? So, be sure to turn left.”
Although the exit was obvious, there was a flaw in his directions. There were grass lots that had to turn right in order to reach the exit. My car just happened to be in one of those lots. Thank goodness.
“I’m parked over there,” I pointed to the lot, and because I’m a bit of a smart aleck, I asked, “Do I still turn left to leave?”
That flustered the well-prepared security guard a great deal. “No. No. You’ll turn right. Just be sure you go that way.” He pointed toward the exit again. “Otherwise you’ll run into traffic and people will have trouble getting in, and you’ll have to turn around.”
I nodded and smiled a mischievous smile, but I think the security guard believed it was a smile that only came from those who were perpetually confused.
“OK. I think I got it.” I was ready to put it at rest and enjoy the rest of my evening but…
This security guard made a critical mistake, giving me an idea. A horrible, wonderful idea.
“Just be sure to turn right,” he said as we walked away.
That was it. His fate was sealed and I couldn’t be happier. From there, I assured him I would find the exit, and I, my wife, and band of misfit friends headed to the car. I let them know right away that I had no plans at all to turn right. This little piggy was going to turn left all the way home.
Because he was watching us I did turn right out of my parking spot which sent me away from the road. That was just to sell him the thought that I was likely the most lost person he’d ever encountered. Considering my Oscar-winning performance in the maze, it was imperative that I remained in character after all. So, after turning right a couple more times, I reached the actual road that would send me to either the entrance or the exit. It was the point of no return, and I did what I had to do. I turned left.
My friends and my wife were chuckling a great deal about this time. I’m a really responsible driver, so I kept my eyes on the road, but a very reliable source, a misfit friend of mine, managed to let me know between fits of laughter that the well-prepared and possibly very flustered security guard was sprinting toward us. Oh dear, I must’ve turned the wrong way.
Mission accomplished. It felt good knowing I could still scare the pants off people. I put the car in reverse, and after a few very professional turns of the steering wheel, we were heading toward the entrance, I mean exit, you know, toward the big wooden sign, the one with those strange markings on it. And a part of me still thinks that a very well-meaning and well-prepared security guard was reconsidering his career choices behind us.
Now could you imagine what kind of person I’d be if I had written that final love letter back in the second grade? If you’re unfamiliar with that story, the link is below. I’ll share more of these true tales in the weeks, months, years ahead. Until next time, be sure to check under your bed for strange people who are waiting to get that spine-tingling scream out of you. AGHHHHH! And no, the closet door isn’t the entrance, I mean exit.
