Are you looking to get scared this spooky season? Want to be so terrified that you scream-pee through your Lululemons? Then come visit our Haunted House, the only Halloween destination guaranteed to scare the shit out of the toughest people on the planet: mothers.
To find the haunted house, follow the neon blinking “Sweater Weather” and “Pumpkin Spice ‘n’ Everything Nice” signs. You’ll know you’re getting close when you start to hear a blood-curdling wail:
OooOOOOooh
OoooOOOOooooooooooohhhh
It’s “Into the Unknown” from Frozen being played on a loop.
To enter, you’ll pass through a yard littered with Dum-Dum wrappers, wheel-less scooters, and Barbies with their hair braided together and their eyes gouged out. As you approach the house, the front door will creak open. That’s when you’ll see it: a sight so horrific that your scream will shatter eardrums at the Applebees next door:
It’s a single tiny sock.
And three feet away is something even scarier:
Another single sock.
But wait!
The second sock doesn’t match the first.
It doesn’t match any sock on the planet.
You look around and you realize that this house is covered in random socks, stray gloves, and water bottles missing their caps.
Screaming, you run into the kitchen. You take a seat at the counter and turn to your husband, whom you’ve brought along as moral support. You start to say, “Honey, I’m so scared, I–”.
But your voice is drowned out. The room is filled with the sounds of a toddler screaming about the temperature of her milk, a tween begging for a $70 face cream, a dog barking, and your phone buzzing with a dozen notifications reminding you that you’ve got 24 hours to make your kid a costume for “American Revolution Day.” You look into your husband’s eyes and suddenly realize a horrifying truth: you’ll never speak to him in full sentences again.
That’s when you notice it, right there on the counter. It’s a pile of dozens of papers, fluttering in the light breeze. You pick one up and scream.
It’s a child’s birthday invitation to Chuck E. Cheese.
And another.
And another.
Sick with the terror at the thought of never-ending-Saturdays full of hyper six-year-olds and weirdly sweet pizza, you run.
But no! The hallway is covered in loose Legos, tiny, open safety pins, and Goldfish crumbs. You bend down to pick them up but more pop up immediately. You swerve to avoid an ant-covered cracker when you step into a warm, sticky puddle right outside the bathroom. Is it bathwater? Pee? Dog vomit?
Surprise! It’s all three. And the paper towels are all gone.
You’re sopping up the puddle with a handful of disintegrating toilet paper when the doorbell rings. You open it. It’s your mother-in-law. She’s holding an enormous basket of cheap stuffed animals, talking dolls, and plastic keyboard-and-drum-sets which are all playing simultaneously. One of the dolls is Elsa, and she’s also singing the Frozen song, but in Chinese and three keys off pitch. You look for an off button, but it’s been broken. All the off buttons are broken.
You try to gather up the toys and take them to the kids’ bedroom. You’re walking down the hall when out of the corner of your eye you catch the sight of a gruesome monster with dried out skin and dead eyes.
On a closer look, you realize: it’s not a monster, it’s actually a mirror, and it’s reflecting an image of a 40-year-old woman with multiple graduate degrees whose entire sense of self-esteem is now based on scoring the best lightning deals on Amazon Prime Day.
You arrive at the kids’ bedroom. Opening the door, you find something you’ll never unsee. Something even more terrifying than a pee smell whose location you can’t identify:
It’s a pile of capless markers. Sitting next to an open container of glitter slime. Sitting next to a two-foot tall bucket of Perla beads.
And right in the middle stands the scariest ghoul of all.
It’s a soaking wet three-year-old who is screaming because the toothpaste tastes “too wet.” She’s ripping off her pull-ups, tearing heads off teddy bears, and throwing balls of glitter slime directly at you. You realize that in order to leave the room, you have to stuff her wet, thrashing body into a one-size-too-small pair of fleece pajamas.
It’s too much. You grab your husband and run out the exit door. You get home, pay the babysitter, and get in bed. You’re just about to drift off to sleep when you hear it.
COLD WATER
COLD WATER
COLD WATER
You look up and there’s a small child in a white flannel nightgown, grinning a toothless grin and holding out her cup.
Fuck! Are you actually still in the haunted house?! You run to escape.
But just before you get outside, you see it.
A single sock.
You hear it.
The Frozen song.
And you realize: you’re not in a haunted house. You never have been. You’re just at home, and it’s a normal Thursday night.
So you crack open a can of wine, click on Amazon, and look for Halloween decorations. Great news, there’s a lightning deal! It’s a dancing, singing, yard skeleton, and it’s holding a sign.
“Happy Fall Y’all.”
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.