When you stand outside the little, thatched place that calls itself Scary House, you might feel smug about the terrified screams emanating from within. After all, everyone knows that whatever's in there is not the real thing. So really, it's quite silly to scream like that. Besides, you probably got here since you didn't get tickets for the real shows upstairs.
You even buy a ticket, to show 'em lily livered folks. You are feeling tickled even as you enter the 'haunted house' and read about the unfortunate end that the family residing here met with. Killed brutally - all of them. And now their souls wander - either seeking retribution or just trapped, unable to get out. Yawn.
And here's where your smugness melts into embarassed terror. As the Plaster-Of-Paris skeletons hee-hee-ha-ha-ha their way through your ear-drums, and some dead old hag lets out a shrill sssccrrream, you suddenly remember the little notice that advised heart-patients, children, pregnant ladies and the elderly to stay out.
Of course, you still think it's a lot of bupkis
. It's Plaster Of Paris, for crying out loud! And then this dead old dude lazing on his charpoi
decides to say BOO! You know he would, but when he does you are huddling against your friends, screaming, "Why should I go first? You go first!"
For some reason, the place spooks you. Maybe it's the clever arrangement of eerie paraphernalia, the lighting, or the screaming 'children'. Maybe it's the lady that pops out of nowhere (real lady, as in flesh and blood, alive and everything - she's the scariest part of the ride). Or maybe it's just a bunch of terrified pals feeding off each other's horror.
Not bad for 30 bucks, huh?
Read: Prasad's Multiplex