Portland has more haunted houses than strip clubs, come the end of September [ED: Don’t forget DJ Dick Hennessy’s haunted strip club at Spyce]. Okay, that’s not true, but Jesus Christ, it sometimes feels just as saturated. Once again, adult hipsters who refuse to grow up have taken over something meant for children— like coloring books or onesies.
I’m not hating, I’m one of those adult children. I fucking love haunted houses, but now they’re like I.P.A. at a new Portland brewery. Do you really need seven, when you only have six taps? Long story short, it’s hard to stand out in this industry, unless you have a hell of a budget or a shit ton of people willing to take all of October off and violate people’s personal space.
For the budget side of things, you have stuff like Fright Town, where it’s honestly more impressive as an art installation than something that will actually scare you. For the other end of the spectrum, head out to Gresham to one of the full-contact haunted houses, where you don’t even get a safe word. And then, there’s like five zillion variations of those extremes all over Portland. The point is, nowadays, if you want to open your own haunted house (or escape room, ‘cause they’re like twins separated at birth, at this point) you gotta have a very distinct angle.
I read about a sex-themed haunted house in San Francisco last year, which just sounds like Dante’s on Halloween, only more expensive. I kid. Still, being frightened and being aroused is a fairly short bridge to cross, psychologically. Also, depending on who’s working, the full-contact House Of Shadows in Gresham kinda becomes a twisted horror orgy of sorts, so this isn’t that strange a concept.
The haunted house concept really got the new spin it needed, when Christians co-opted haunted houses into hell houses, where you are basically taken on a tour of people JUST LIKE YOU, who succumb to the horrible, deplorable, make-Jesus-cry actions of homosexuality, abortion, drug use and rock music. I am not joking. Most of these hell houses that I read about end with the actor in these progressively sinful series of vignettes, killing themselves for the grand finale. Suicide is a big no-no in Christianity, I guess.
Either way, these hell houses gave me an idea that Portland might be able to get away with, for a haunted house that targets a very specific demographic: musicians! You may think these pitches are silly and honestly not that scary, but, I ask you, dear reader, is it any less ridiculous than trying to terrify you with a little scene of two people who happen to have similar genitals making out? Or, decide that they don’t have the emotional maturity or financial stability to bring a human into the world and decide to spare that hypothetical human an unnecessarily traumatic upbringing?
As is the custom with most haunted houses, the horror show must start while you’re waiting in line to get INTO the actual attraction. While you stand in a zigzag line that sprawls out past the easy-up canopy, into the freezing cold rain, an actor dressed as the most trendy version of the trendiest hipster will harass you with fliers to his super cool show. Just as Christians are grossed out by same-sex marriages, musicians will be perturbed by the sad example of their own pathetic attempts at self-promotion. Cringe in horror, as the hipster douchebag promises how "It’s gonna be a real cool time, man. I promise you!" before doing finger guns or some bullshit at you.
The attraction properly begins when you’re loaded into a noisy, shaky van. The fake van will shutter and break down. A fog machine can probably stand in for the radiator going out. The actor driving the van (band bitch, manager, whathaveyou...), will ask you if anyone has any service on their phone, money or any practical knowledge about how an internal combustion engine works. You’ll want to leave, but you cannot, as more actors surround you with complaints in the whiniest voice possible.
They won’t let you out of the van. Once you feel like you can’t take any more of some sweaty manchild screaming, "Why didn’t you get gas before we left?" into your ear, the doors open and you’re shoved in front of some mock-up of the local watering hole. The bouncer will come up to you and ask for your I.D., which you don’t have, because you had to leave your wallet in a locker, before coming to the attraction. As you panic, another actor comes up and gets mouthy with the bouncer about what a big deal you are. Watch in horror, as the punitive little shittalker convinces the bouncer of how you can kick his ass with your social media following.
This part is fun. The bouncer turns into a maniacal, chainsaw-wielding demon who chases you down a (hopefully) well-constructed, dark corridor—taunting you with phrases such as, "How many likes do you have on Instagram?" and "How many followers do you have on Spotify?" as he makes a lot of noise and stuff.
This scary corridor run pushes you onto a mock stage, similar to that weird one they used to have at the EMP Museum in Seattle. You stand on the stage and look out at no one. An empty, kitschy bar with a small handful of actors that scoff at you for interrupting their cocktails. Another actor, posing as a sound engineer, tells you to turn it down, even after you’ve stopped talking and crawled into a ball, weeping silently. Your friend that you got to come out (another actor) complains about the three-dollar cover charge, as you keep trying to be quieter.
Chainsaw bouncer door guy returns at this point and tells you to stop crying and berates you for how much you’ve drank. He tells you to get off the stage, because the owner overbooked and the next band (round of haunted house enthusiasts) needs to set up.
Another horrid, strobe-lit corridor serves as the maze, which you must evade chainsaw man as he screams "get off the fucking stage!" at you.
At a certain point, you escape this maze and feel safe. Some actor dressed as a clown or something offers you a drink ticket for your troubles and the floodlights above illuminate a bar, where you think the haunted attraction finally ends with a refreshing alcoholic beverage.
It doesn’t matter what you order, because the bartender says that the ticket you were just given isn’t good for that. Chainsaw man appears from under the bar and chases you to the final vignette.
As you fall into yet another mock-up venue, after another hot, chainsawed pursuit, you are confronted with another stage, yet you are not on it. The trendy hipster who harassed you in line earlier is on stage, playing whatever it is you think is sellout bullshit—whether it be a ukulele, two turntables (and a microphone) or a zydeco quartet. A swarm of actors come out and throw down for hipster flier pusher, while chainsaw bouncer shows up, yet again, just to give you the chainsaw, so you can off yourself for being the fraud you are.
It’s not for everyone, but it would scare the living shit out of some. Happy Fucking Halloween.
