Sunny Hill, New York is where tourists go to seek adventure. A small town of innocence, peculiar weather patterns, and the occasional supernatural sighting, Sunny Hill is every adventurer's dream.
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𝐌𝐀𝐗 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐅𝐑�...
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WE BOTH REACH FOR THE RAILING on the way down. My breath curls back into my face. It only stops becoming visible when we step into the dim light. The smell of nickel and dirt caked together is thick in the air. The stone floor is covered in a thin layer of dirt. Max walks off the last step after me and we step into the center of the room together. Your usual garage or basement furniture is set up with some other, more questionable items.
The first thing we notice is the folding chairs set up in three rows of six across from the workbench where a "dead body" lays. A girl with her face turned to the side, directed away from us. Her chest is ripped open from the base of her neck to the area just below her bellybutton. On the wall behind the dummy, Who's Next is written in fake blood. Gruesome and creepy on its own, but I wait for the "dummy" to jump at me.
Max turns away to look at the rest of the room. Scythes, knives, machetes, and axes line the walls, hung up against cork boards the way construction tools would be in a normal basement.
"Check that out," I turn my attention away from the dummy on the workbench and approach the scythes. I can't resist running my hand across the handles and blades. Several of them are coated in a rusted color, which resembles blood.
"The amount of effort down here is stupendous," Max watches the room in awe, sounding almost jealous. To be fair, our display in the dining room isn't even a little comparable.
"Whoa." I jump back as I catch a glimpse of another "dead body" sprawled out across the floor in front of a bunker door. This body is cut open in the same fashion as the body on the workbench, but missing a head. My stomach drops and my skin chills, but I remind myself that everything is fake. Which is odd, because the blade of the scythe felt real in my hand. Why spend money on real weapons for a fake display?
"These dummies are creeping me out," Max mentions, standing just above the one on the workbench. She studies the face. "The makeup looks so real. I wonder if they're made of wax." She reaches upward with a curious hand as I grab a machete and give it a swing.
The basement door slams shut, making us both jump. Loud footsteps crash down the steps, and they creak in misery. The person walking isn't stomping, so they must be huge. Max watches the stairs but creeps backward towards me. She seems more scared than I am, so I grab her hand to comfort her. A large man emerges from the dark stairwell, carrying a girl over his shoulder. He's dressed as a circus clown, although the vertical stripes aren't doing him any favors to look thinner. My skin crawls, rendering me silent as his feet drag across the concrete floor.
"Welcome to the show!" He shouts, holding his arms out and laughing. A loud, thunderous laugh.
"The other two screamed a lot when I opened them up." He mentions absentmindedly, turning toward the bunker and trampling the dummy, who makes an awful squelching sound upon impact. Max buries her face in my shoulder, made squeamish by the sound. I drop the machete and wrap an arm around her waist, squeezing her hip.
"Relax," I tried to tell her. But I have to keep it in mind myself, shivering against my peg leg.
"That sounded awful," she whispers, "Can we get out of here?"
The man returns, dragging another dummy from the bunker by her leg like a rag doll and then locking the door. I wonder what kind of budget this year's Horror House must have had for the film-grade dummies to be conveniently on hand every time someone steps into the basement.
"Have a seat!" He invites, pushing the bloodied mess of the fileted dummy onto the floor and slamming the other onto the workbench.
Now the ticking starts. I've lost control over my shaking head and clicking tongue. Fear tends to kickstart Tourette Syndrome.
A ball gag is in the dummy's mouth, and just like a regular film dummy probably would, she begins to scream on cue, eyes wide and arms thrashing. My instincts tell me to freeze as I watch this play out. It's fake, right? I close my eyes anyway when the laughing psychopath raises his ax. It comes down with a crack. The screaming stops.
"What's the science behind the blood?" Max asks, studying the body for any imperfections. Head tilted, eyes glowing in interest. I realize how tightly I'm squeezing her.
"Oh, you know. You cut a body, you make it bleed!" He laughs back, a crazed, mean laugh.
"Right." Max glances at me, terror still on her face, but her body language has become more relaxed. "He's not breaking character at all."
"Yeah," I say, unable to enjoy it as I watched fake blood profusely gush from the gagged head and neck.
"I can carve her up, but that's part of the bonus show." He tells us.
"I'd rather not stay for that." My stomach is churning and my headache from the smell of nickel intensifies. I tell myself it's the placebo effect.
"Happy Halloween!" Max calls as I drag her from the basement as fast as my feet will carry me.
"Ugh. Remind me to never go to the basement of a Haunted House again." I exclaim upon our exit, slamming the door behind us. I feel free enough to exhale as we turn back toward the back door.
