My father used to play a fun game with me wherein he would hide behind a door and wait for me to come home from school. As soon as I walked over that threshold, out he would pop, leather belt in hand, and begin beating me until I could barely walk.
I guess you could say that’s the main reason why I’ve always avoided going to funhouses. The whole idea of things jumping out from the shadows to scare you—the meat and potatoes of what these places are built on—was just something that I couldn’t get into.
But, like many a survivor in a horror film who’s been through a traumatic experience, I stupidly felt that it was time to confront my fears of being afraid, once and for all; I could no longer allow those things that keep me from entering dark rooms or sleeping without a nightlight continue to rule my life. It’s been a demon that I’ve needed to slay for far too long and what better way than pay some professionals to do the job Native American Mental Health Services couldn’t.
Perhaps the most popular spook-houses in Oklahoma City are the ones of the more EXXXTREME!!! variety that are proud to offer five scream-filled levels of bloodcurdling horror in a vacant Bricktown building where a waiver must be signed and a ticket price of $30 ($1 off with a Pepsi can!) kick off the horrific proceedings.
At first I thought that maybe one of those high-profile, top-dollar downtown haunts is where I should start, but, as I learned the hard way, the scariest thing about those downtown places isn’t what’s inside—it’s the drunken rednecks, sweating in their wife-beaters and growing increasingly agitated as the ever-lengthening Saturday night line doesn’t seem to budge for hours on the outside, looking to pick fights with anyone and everyone. After about 20 minutes of some guys behind me doing just that, I left the scene, totally prepared to scrap this whole piece.