The Scariest Thing About Haunted Houses Is the Extremely Awkward Human Interaction

Guest Feature with Andrew Knott

Welcome to our inaugural Humor Stack Guest Feature. The Humor Stack is a directory of Substacks devoted to humor. Each month, we feature a different humorist on Substack in order to introduce you to publications where you can find laughter, humor, and insight.

For October, we welcome

Andrew Knott

of

Knott, A Newsletter

.

Enjoy…if you dare…

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The Scariest Thing About Haunted Houses Is the Extremely Awkward Human Interaction

by

Andrew Knott

A woman wearing a mid-twentieth-century cocktail waitress costume and ghoulish makeup sashays out from behind a blood-red curtain. A creepy voice crackling through the speakers leers “It’s SHOWTIME!” The boy in front of me giggles.

I feel inexplicably sad.

The woman, presumably an actor, but I guess you never know, is about 12 inches from my left arm as our group of adults and seventh graders walks in a single-file line through a casino-themed scare house at SeaWorld’s Howl-O-scream. She sidesteps out, makes a weird face, does jazz hands, and sidesteps back behind the curtain.

I’m not sure that it's particularly scary, per se, but I’m not one to judge. She is doing her best!

I stare straight ahead, walking quickly, only allowing myself subtle peripheral glances. I quickly determine this is the best strategy to avoid the embarrassment of potentially being jump-scared, and more importantly, having to acknowledge that these actors are fellow humans (presumably) with possibly the weirdest jobs on the planet.

Can you imagine?

Getting dressed up in a costume, face lacquered up with zombie makeup, and then repeating the same movements and screams and cackles over and over again for hours at a time? Like, yeah, I’ve put on a mask for years to be a parent—pretending to be impressed by my kids’ somersaults, pretending that I’m not a complete nihilist so I don’t scare off other parents, pretending that I know what I’m doing in any situation—but this is next level masquerading.

That refrain probably haunts that poor woman’s every waking moment. She’ll take it to the grave.

I’ll take to the grave the extreme awkwardness of this entire evening. And the delight of seeing my suddenly-very-grown-up-seeming firstborn having so much fun with his friends.

But yeah, mostly the awkward part.

We were invited to Howl-O-scream to celebrate the thirteenth birthday of one of my son’s friends. They’ve known each other since they were five, so we’ve come a long way. From the first day of kindergarten with the little red Ks pinned to their shirts to a thirteenth birthday at Howl-O-scream where we walk together through a haunted red light district teeming with ghouls of questionable morals and intentions.

They sure do grow up fast.

If you’re not from the Orlando area, you might not be familiar with these haunted theme park events, but they are a staple of central Florida culture. Much like strip malls, that monstrous eyesore of an unfinished building by I-4, and giant inflatable pigeons. Pretty much all the theme parks have them now and the fact that I avoided attending one for over forty years is one of my greatest accomplishments.

I have to admit, though, I'm a bit eager to find out what all the fuss is about.

As our group walks through the front gate, things are off to the perfect start. We immediately see a woman kneeling on the concrete while a person dressed up as some sort of zombie squirts red liquid from a large syringe into her mouth. I assume this is all part of the act and the woman kneeling is a member of the crew, but no. After she finishes slurping from the syringe, she gets up, dusts off her knees, and walks away with her friends who are not undead (yet).

Apparently, this place goes hard.

Our next stop is the aforementioned haunted red light district located under the bleachers of the Orca stadium (remember, we’re at SeaWorld, which makes this all feel even weirder). There are red booths with plexiglass windows occupied by ghosts and goblins of the night. I’ve been to Amsterdam so I know what to do: stare straight ahead… see nothing… say nothing… don’t react when they bang on the glass. Men and women in skimpy clothes flit about, randomly popping hand fans in people’s faces for some reason. There is a young woman dressed more conservatively in a tattered white garment wandering around, crying, and screeching about something being lost. She may be just a mom who has lost a child in the park. I'm not about to ask.

We walk through about four “scare houses” with various themes: insane asylum, demented hospital, undersea monsters, grocery store checkout line. I stare straight ahead like a champ in each one.

I do wonder on several occasions if I am cheating myself by sticking to my “see nothing, say nothing” strategy for survival. I mean, tickets to these things aren’t cheap. Should I be doing more to get my money’s worth? Every half hour or so I let my cheapskate intrusive thoughts win out and, when we enter a room that seems relatively safe and devoid of human actors, I take a moment to swivel my head around and soak it all in.

Ah, yes… super nice rickety table with an abandoned checkers game and cobwebs. This is the stuff.

That's enough for me.

On the pathways between attractions, more actors lurk. One of the boys in our group likes to talk back to them and call them names when they threaten him with a chainsaw or whatever, which I guess is fine if you’re a normal person, but it isn’t my idea of fun. I make sure to distance myself from that kid while not straying too far from the group to attract attention from other actors who are being paid to terrorize me. It’s a tricky line to walk. It feels precarious. Much like life, I guess.

My son seems to be having a great time overall, but I notice he also diligently avoids the actors. That’s my boy. I offhandedly say to him on several occasions, Man, imagine working in one of these scare houses?

He replies, Yeah, you’ve said that a bunch of times now. Why are you so hung up on this?

I don’t know, son. I don’t know. It’s just how my brain works. It loves to pick apart inconsequential things. I briefly consider applying to join the haunted house crew just so I can take my empathy up to another level.

I imagine myself dressed as a zombie sneaking up behind people and whispering in their ear, Sorry to bother you. I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry about me. It’s just a job. I put on the costume. Work. Then get cleaned up so I can pick up an iced coffee on my way home. It’s super late, yes, but I’m so amped after my shift the caffeine weirdly helps me wind down if that makes sense lol. Hope you have a horrifically frightening night.

I’m not sure why that first cocktail waitress actor made me feel so sad or why I have a bit of a dark cloud hanging over me all evening, but I think it might boil down to the fact that I can’t see the world through any eyes other than my own. It’s no secret that anxiety is one of my defining personal characteristics. I struggle to order at a fast-food restaurant drive-thru; it’s no surprise that being inches away from other humans acting very strange makes me uncomfortable.

And not only does it make me uncomfortable, but my default response is to presume that they also feel uncomfortable which adds yet another layer of discomfort. Of course, that’s probably not the case. It stands to reason people who choose to apply for such jobs might find them palatable or even enjoyable in some way. It seems impossible, I know! I would love to talk to one of the actors (when they’re not in makeup) to find out how they feel about it. (Actually, check that, I wouldn’t because it would be weird for me, but I like the idea of having such a conversation. Maybe I can just invent one?)

Being a stay-at-home parent can be a very isolating experience, and though I’m very well suited for it, in some ways it hasn’t done me any favors. Not having a true work life outside the home has made it very easy for me to withdraw into myself and my routines. To avoid human interaction. If I’m being honest, my strategy for surviving daily life is about the same as my strategy for surviving a haunted theme park event.

Eyes forward. See nothing. Say nothing. Always, ALWAYS use self-checkout at the grocery store!

It’s admittedly a weird way to live. Maybe even weirder than working in a haunted house. It’s repetitive and forever awkward, but comfortable when I don’t stray too far away from my little group.

Of course, everyday awkward terrors still manage to find me. Like the little girl who just moved into the house across the fence in our backyard and recently learned to climb the fence. She could appear at the sliding glass door on our back porch at any moment. Tapping on the glass like an awkward apparition.

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And now, a Q & A with our guest contributor!

Kate: Tell us more about the grocery store checkout portion.

Andrew: Ah, so that is completely a joke and a bit of an obscure one because it requires familiarity with my previous story about the invasive bagger at the grocery store who inexplicably asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. There wasn't an actual grocery store set up at the haunted house event, but if there was, it would definitely feature that bagger! 

K: When you wrote that bit, I couldn’t help but visualize what that scenario would look like. “Haunted Grocery Store.” The shop is out of stock for everything you need, you left your coupons home, and self-checkouts incessantly repeat “Please scan your item before putting it in the bag."

Actually, the art collective MeowWolf has an experience called The Omega Mart  in Las Vegas. I remember the pigeon piece you shared about the inflatable pigeons in Orlando. Talk to me about the relationship between these large-scale artistic/ performative events and what you choose to write. 

A: That would totally be the haunted grocery store experience!

So, I saw an article about the pigeons in Orlando and was immediately like, "Well, this is weird." I've historically written a lot about my kids and stuff we do together, but they're getting older now so that is tougher. I'm always on the lookout for experiences that could be content so I pestered them to drive to see the pigeons. None of them would go, so once school started back, I went by myself. That actually made it easier to write the piece because it gave me a catchy title and premise that I wouldn't have otherwise had ("The worst thing about my kids growing up is they don't want to go see giant colorful pigeons with me"). I think it turned out well, and I got a killer selfie with the pigeons that I turned into my newsletter brand image.

K: Everything can be fodder for humor writing — even your children abandoning you. I feel like there is sadness or pathos or a deep pit of despair within the best humor. Like how all of the funniest performers are often also depressed. What do you think makes something funny? 

A: I think that's definitely true. And I very much gravitate toward that darker humor both when I'm writing and when I'm reading. I love self-deprecating jokes and humor about serious things like mental health and even death. People cope with the seeming randomness of life in different ways and my favorite way is through humor. Like, if I can make jokes about being anxious and depressed or about my children growing up and leaving me or my eventual demise into nothingness, maybe it makes those things just a little less scary? Maybe? Or maybe not, but at least it helps pass the time.

I'll share one piece I really loved recently that I thought was so funny because the delivery was so serious and the humor was so dark and unexpected. I love that contrast. And the sudden transitions in this one are so funny. 

How I Became the Coolest Parent at the Skate Park

K: This is great. This is why I wanted to conduct the interview this way.  I knew I’d discover something in going back and forth and it is this: each of our features should conclude with a recommendation from the writer!

Thank you for reading our first feature from the The Humor Stack.

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Andrew Knott is a writer and editor from Florida. He has contributed writing to the Washington Post, McSweeney’s, and Parents Magazine, among others. He is the founding editor of Frazzled, a parenting humor publication on Medium. He is the author of Love’s a Disaster, a contemporary romantic comedy novel, and Fatherhood: Dispatches From the Early Years, a collection of essays and humor pieces about the early years of his stay-at-home dad journey. Subscribe to his Substack to stay up to date on, well, whatever it is he does.