The last thing I expected at the Trail of Terror was actual terror. For those who have never set foot in the wretched place, imagine your wildest fears attempted to be made out of wax and papier mâché. Add in a few underpaid teens in makeup, some cheap fairground rides, mechanical monsters that look remarkably similar to Wizard of Oz monkeys––you get the idea.
For years, I had been going to this Trail of Mediocrity, when, two Octobers ago, I was involved in one of the most terrifying horror scenes outside of a movie theater. Not only do they employ disgruntled teenagers, but creepy old men as well––creepy old men who just love spending their retirement money on clown makeup and their time stalking customers.
In this instance, my friends and I were just getting off the hayride through the spooky forest and found ourselves being stared at by an elderly clown at the back of the cart. He was an interesting specimen, about 5’5” with badly drawn makeup, thick Harry Potter glasses, and one leg that was shorter than the other.
Just before hopping off the cart, my friend Molly said, “Hey, sexy!” and winked at the old clown. I, along with the rest of our group, knew she was joking, but apparently Oldy missed the memo. He immediately got off his perch on the cart and began to follow us.
For the next two hours, we found ourselves being trailed, and grim nightmares floated through our brains of what our stalker might do to us. Maybe he would throw us in a blender and use us for tomorrow’s breaktime snack. Maybe he would tie us up, give us some of his makeup, and force us to act out Shakespeare. In any case, our situation was not good.
For the rest of the night, we went through a series of military tactics in order to escape our Joker-esque pursuer: splitting up, smoke bombs, air assaults, biochemical warfare, nothing was working.
Until finally, he had us cornered in the house of horrors (appropriate, considering who was following us).
We tried to sprint ahead, but a gaggle of his co-conspirators blocked our path (or they could have been slow walkers). But I was tired of running. I resorted to hiding, which turned out to be a good idea. I saw a small gap between the walls that held up the maze which gave me a perfect view of what would happen next. It was at that precise moment that a drunk man similar in size to Randy Jackson barreled through, completely eliminating the slow-person barrier that kept us inside this ghoulish clown hell.
Sprinting like Jamaicans in the Olympics, we made it out in one piece and immediately made a beeline for the exits. Although out of the Trail, I was looking over my shoulder for the next few days, envisioning those beady eyes staring at me, puncturing deep into my soul. Okay, maybe it was all a misunderstanding, or maybe one of my friends dropped something and he was returning it. In any case, you won’t find me anywhere near an elderly employee at the Trail of Terror any time soon.
