Walk Through a Haunted House With EST's "The Wheel Deal" Columnists

Photo courtesy of James and Seth

The opinions reflected in this OpEd are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of staff, faculty and students of The King's College.

Note to reader: When we write C’est la vie we hope you will say it out loud with a husky, graveling, quite fake French accent. Include an optimism and hope which swells right about the time “vie” rolls around.
You might remember us from our bike column, “The Wheel Deal.” 

Update on said column: James’s bike was stolen on a cold night, the bustling streets of Amsterdam Avenue providing a lush backdrop for the crime. Just 12 feet from the head of James's bed, the thief clipped the flimsy lock. He slipped away into the darkness of the night probably murmuring to himself, c’est la vie! 

Just that same week, Seth found himself biking up Central Park West, vroom vroom, as he does. Vrooming up Central Park West, buzzing, chip chopping, no helmet—*baaaah.* Greenlight up ahead—his right of way. A NYC Parks car turns right and wham, down our mighty biker falls. Igor, the driver, crunched Seth’s frontal lobe of his tire. A mighty couple of bruises stained his leg for weeks. Oh no, don’t feel bad; he’s a pretty tough guy.

So anyhow, C'est la vie!! The bikers don’t got no bikes. Wear a helmet. 

Anywho… emerging from the subway, no bike in sight, we felt the freedom that only a true pedestrian can feel. Seth downed some shots of Jäger, YUM YUM. SLURP SLURP. Can’t be arrested for drunk walking, amiright??!! 

To be frank, we hadn’t felt our souls or bodies so detached from the cares of this world in a long time. We were goofy, flipping up thumbs to whomever glanced at our group antics—weird dances, heel clicks like Rumpelstiltskin, examining our bodies in the distorted reflection of a large metallic bean statue. 

It was fall, the beginning of Halloweekend. White Horse would follow; tequila specials and a weekend with a real good excuse to procrastinate on homework.

Uniqlo HeatTech was no match for the sting of the cold as we walked to the end of the 7 o’clock line. Sideshow actors tried their hands at cheap jump-scares as we slinked our way down the block to the haunted Blood Manor. The scraping of a bloodied shovel on the sidewalk finally gave us the hibijibis. A precursor for a spooky night. A spooky ~UwU~ woooky night. (UwU spoken aloud as “oowoo.”)

A tall man with warts and blood trickling down his distorted face came to perform a staring contest with James. OoO, a creepy staring contest. Seth couldn’t help but start laughing. It was ridiculous! At first he kept the giggles to himself, but soon, despite his best efforts at control, he guffawed to the hidden chagrin of Mike the Monster or Scary Sam or whatever he wanted to be called.

We walked downstairs. Some chump with big muscles ordered us through, yelling some dirty profanity while patting a big fat baton, like some kinky guy at a rave looking for a wild time. He’s got a white tank top on and some scary make-up, and we think he legit got off on pushing us around. It reminded us of the Stanford Prison Experiment—a terrifying social experiment well worth your research.

“Move over here! Stand against the wall! Two steps over! You see that spot! Stay there!” 

A fat clown followed suit. He too pushed us around, ordered us here and there. Authority and power, given this arbitrarily, yields odd results.

With the entrance to the official Blood Manor just in sight, a Harley Quinn Impersonator gave us one final taste of the night to come. She said, “Can’t wait to kill you and make your friends watch!” in an oddly sensual tone that left us slightly unsettled as to the nature of her character. So far, a whacked, disorienting attempt at subtle eroticism.

Walking in through those doors gave us this strange sense of completion: the only way out now is through. Walking in single-file, with Seth in lead and our friend Jon Adler in caboose, we braved the night. Thankfully, and less interestingly, the slightly psychotic power dynamic had dwindled away.

So we entered…

The surgeon’s room, filled with grotesque bodies. Long hallways sloping up, down, back around, fake walls filled with demon jump scares. The werewolves, the ghosts, psychotic bleached hair bent over tables springing up at us. “Rawr!” XD!

We climbed a set of stairs, were handed 3-D glasses, then entered neon colors with clown faces plastered here and there. An attempt at a psychedelic experience—decently well done. Our periphery vision was blocked and the jump scares gained effect. 

Brightly lit felons and witches and goblins danced in and out, screaming, “Tickle tickle!” in a high pitch voice, slightly aware, slightly sarcastic, slightly tired, a little too aggressive and perhaps suggestive. 

We had rounded a corner when this heavyset man grabbed our stomachs. That was scary. Actually scary. The touch added a real element of fear, maybe appropriate in a haunted house but certainly not appropriate in COVID-19 New York.

Talk about spooky! The haunting of Governor Cuomo boldly spoke in a remorseful tone, “We are NY Tough. We’re in this together.” 

We placed the global fears of death and shutdown on the backburner for a night of immediate, carnal fear. Our giddy trio paid $144.35 for a night of personal bubble invasion and accidental caressing by tired employees looking to supplement their $1200 stimulus checks from late April. Socially distanced, “shmocially” distanced. Cue jump scare.

We realized how 3-D glasses work! It filters the colors in a line of VIB-G-YOR. Violet comes to meet us and red sinks into the background. At least we think. We’re artists, not scientists, okay?!

It was decently short. We were surprised to push through a door and come to the end, a photo gallery with an attendant ready to take our picture. If no picture, it didn’t happen. If no picture posted, it certainly didn’t happen. 

This completed the experience, this lovely lovely photo gallery. We simply needed a photo of ourselves there, a bunch of dashing 20-somethings brave enough to brave a haunted house on Halloween-eve.

Why did hundreds of New Yorkers decide to spend $45, waiting an hour in the cold, to walk through a fabrication? Why did we wade through plastic bodies resembling bloodied half-naked girls and tortured guys with their torsos torn off, hanging upside down like hogs in a New Jersey meat factory? Why do we go? Why do you go? Are we so void of terror and excitement? Let us know in the comments!

Maybe we need to address our fears—find a way to live in them. Maybe the paralyzing fears experienced in the wee hours of the night between waking and sleeping should be brought to the surface. Maybe finally letting them in, in the confines of a “safe” environment, emboldens and re-invigorates us afterward. 

We suspect that us New Yorkers, and us Americans, are awfully void of embodied experiences. We’ve forgotten the physical self, as we wrap ourselves up in smartphones, forget home-cooked meals; forget to exercise, forget to pray, forget liturgies and habits. We live content in white plastic walls, fluorescent lights searing our corneas, cubicle, cubicle, cubicle. We’re pale, shriveled, hunched over, with glazed eyes, memories drained of childhood. Fears and hopes and desires left unattended to.

The 2Boo Review: Employees got some weird ticks. We were happy to have gone; it was interesting enough. Lots of colors and lots of odd people, and for sure a learning experience. We saw costumes and characters only our distant childhoods remembered. Maybe Blood Manor helped us embrace a long forgotten and needed sense of our own mortality.
Tickle tickle and a sweet C’est la vie!!