 They say that if you want a first date to be effective, you should make it a horror film. Apparently something about the brain chemicals released makes people more attracted to each other, which is a tad manipulative if you think about it too long. But if it works, it works. However, this is far from the first date. It might just be the last if I don't do absolutely everything I can. If a horror film can get a girl attached, this might just make us fused at the waist. Getting tickets was surprisingly easy. It moves around the country fairly often, and whenever it arrives, everyone flocks to get a load of the latest horror experience. But Lisa was friends with a guy running the venue, so it worked itself out. No one scorns a bit of polite corruption when it benefits them. Still, I paid for the tickets, 25 each, and from what I've heard, that makes it vastly underpriced. Thomas David calls a tightly suited woman at the waiting room desk as a worker leads a middle aged man into the back room. For a horror attraction, the waiting room is surprisingly peaceful. A lot of places try to spook you early, with actors and tacky decorations draped everywhere. That was certainly what I expected when I walked in, but it seems like they prefer to keep it professional, at least on this end. You see, the frights aren't really for us. They split every parent too, with one becoming a part of the attraction as to give their partner a personalized scare. Horror with a human touch, that's their slogan. Jack Amos, the secretary says, another boy going to the back room. Still a few more to go before me. Like clockwork, as one person leaves, another enters the waiting room, this time a graying older man, who chooses to sit next to me despite the few empty seats. You can tell with some people when they're going to speak. They sort of look at you to make sure you won't bite, I suppose, and their mouths rest open, as if warming up the machinery. Who do you have on the other side? I ask, preempting the man. My grandson, it's a treat for his birthday. He says, a cheerful smile stretching out the lines of his face and pulling his white stubble tight. Birthday, huh? How old is he? 15. 15. A tad young, but looking around the waiting room, I see a little girl waiting excitedly beside her mother. Like I said, this side isn't for the scare, so they allow it. At the other entrance, it's purely 18 plus. He's always been a bit of a horror buff. The old man says, trying to keep up the conversation, but my attention is still on that child. It's allowed, but I can't say I understand it. What kind of parent brings their child to this sort of thing? I don't consider myself much of a moral busy body, but that still didn't sit right with me. She was a cute little girl with long blonde hair and a pink bow. I wager she'll come out of the room sobbing before long. Though then again, despite people periodically going in, I've never seen someone leave. They must go out through the back entrance, I suppose. Do you think they let us choose the theme? I ask, pitying him. I've always hated people who are mean to old people, and he's clearly lonely. But actually having to be the one to keep someone else entertained was never my thing. Not sure. But if they do, I'm going to ask for something based on the saw films. I don't exactly get the appeal myself, but my son adores them. I never quite got gore films either. It's just a cheap way of getting a scare, not even a scare. It's just disgusting. Well, I'll probably ask for human centipede. My girlfriend can't get enough of those awful films. Coldfield family, the board secretary calls the little girl in the pink bow and her distracted mother take their time in going through the door to the next room. And like clockwork, another customer sits and waits. Still, how much can they possibly do? They let people in every few minutes. They can't spend too much time on each customer. The old man tilts his head. I reckon they have multiple rooms, one for each group. There's probably a fair few members in the back room. That's true. I didn't think of that. Plus, I doubt they'd get such good reviews if they half-assed it. I've always loved hearing old people swear. It simultaneously feels wrong, like hearing Father Christmas swear, but also it feels like after how long they've lived, they've earned the right. And the old man was correct about the reviews. You never hear anything bad about it. If the rush for tickets wasn't evidence enough, you just needed to look at their online review pages. Come to think of it, I don't think I've seen a review lower than five stars. Michael McCormick, the secretary calls. Well, that's my turn. I say to the old man, a little uneasy about leaving him alone. He's clearly lonely. And by how late he was coming in, he's going to be waiting a long while. But I can't keep Lisa or the staff waiting. Now can I? A smiling staff member in an orange shirt meets me at the door and leads me through. As he opens it, I get my first glimpse into the next room, just a hallway, brightly lit with white walls, the corner turning off past my line of sight. He gestures for me to go through in front. And I do so, even though I have no clue where I'm supposed to go, if the path splits off, he stops me as the hallway widens in to the first room, which is essentially a smaller version of the waiting room without any chairs at the desk sits an even more bored looking secretary in an even tighter suit. Just the usual Vivian, the staff member says, plastic smile still on his face. Are any of our consultants free? Mr. Ramirez isn't seeing anyone at the moment. She says, that's room four. He leads me to the next door. This one is more in line with a horror aesthetic than the last, a thick metal door with one of those twisty handles you see on a submarine. As I step through, the door closes behind me. And I noticed there's no handle. I guess I was right about leaving through the other side. Room three, like she said, the staff member says, leaving me to continue my walk without him. The lights are bright, a bit too bright, like the fluorescence in a nightclub bathroom. On the walls are these foam boards with alternate lines of ridges, soundproofing, like you see in YouTubers backgrounds. Very professional, don't want the noise from the fright rooms distracting the people waiting. I get to room four and knock, but the door drifts open before my fist hits at the third time, not metal, a wooden door like the waiting room, this time in cold, clinical white inside is a tall Hispanic man with black hair splotched with gray. He calls me in and points me to a wooden chair. This whole thing feels like a doctor's appointment. So first of all, I'm gonna need you to sign this. He hands me a thick pile of paper stapled together. Uh, what's this? Boring legal stuff. Don't worry about it. I just need you to sign your name here. He says in an upward tone pointing to a line. And then I need you to make a verbal declaration of understanding. I will write a sentence and you can say I agree. And we get into the consultation. Or you cannot say that. And this whole thing ends. Though I will remind you that this experience is non refundable. I nod. I'm not the type to get cold feet, especially when I'm footing the bill. I will read you the paragraph and then you agree. Okay. I, Michael McCormick, understand and agree to the term that once I go through the door at the end of the hall, I am bound to follow the rules of and complete the experience. In other words, once you go through that door, there's no going back. I agree. Very good. He drums his hands on the contract before putting it on his desk. Now I'm to be your fright consultant. Funny title, I know. Basically, my job is to help you create the perfect horror experience for Miss Lisa Monroe. Do you have any initial ideas for what you want to do? Most clients come in basing it on a movie, video game, or a book their partner likes. Well, I was figuring human centipede, but I'm guessing you don't really have the time or resources to do much with something so ambitious. Well, that streamlines things. And don't you worry, we are more than capable of providing for all our clients' needs. Let me just send you an email and you're ready to go to the Fright Room to prep your personalized experience. After a few beeps and the clatter of a mechanical keyboard, Mr. Ramirez leads me down the hallway past rows of advisory rooms. If I had to estimate, I'd say there were 10 in total. We get to the end of the hall where we meet another submarine-like door. Room four, once again, they will be prepared for you. The door slams behind me, once again with no handle to open. Point of no return, it is then, exactly like the contract says. Turning around, I see I'm in another corridor. Once again, 10 rooms with a door at the end of the corridor. But the lights are dimmer here, and they flicker. I'm in the customer side, the back entrance. Time to set up my personalized horror experience. Time to scare Lisa. She's gonna love it. Room three, I search the door numbers until I find it. Even the fonts are creepier now in twisted Roman numerals like scratch marks. The door opens with a click as I twist the cold metal knob. Inside is stood three people in orange uniform shirts, wide plastic grins on their faces. Just through the next door. One of the three, a woman says gesturing to another door from the current room. You people like your doors, I've noticed. Just through the next door. She repeats. Behind that door, the lights are brighter. And a balding man in a suit sits next to what looks like a dentist chair without that blinding light. Welcome, Mr. McCormick, please take a seat. I have expect him to adjust it. But the chair is just the right size as it is. This is the setup room. The room you were just in was the fright zone. What the experiencer sees, we just need to get you prepared first. Right. I suppose you've got a costume or something face paint, something a little more high budget than that. He chuckles. We spare no expense in making an immersive experience for our clients. He pulls a small mic from his desk and murmurs into it, a staff member entering locking the door behind her, still beaming ear to ear. In her hands, she has a chart which she passes to the head technician. Now, the process is fairly simple as these things go. It looks impressive, really. But all it is is a few stitches on either end. Stitches. That's a bit severe, isn't it? You did opt for a human centipede, sir. My heart sinks. Good one. But really, tell me about the costume. The balding man doesn't laugh, and the staff member doesn't stop smiling. This isn't a joking matter, sir. Please just relax. It will take just a few moments. What? Come on, I'm not stupid. You can't do this. It was tricky, yes, having to recruit people on such short notice. But don't you worry, sir. It was well within our means, and no burden at all when it comes to customer satisfaction. My hands sweat into the hand rest. I notice the keys on the staff member's side. But I stutter, looking for excuses. Won't it hurt? Well, we'll numb you for the initial procedure, but there may be some discomfort afterwards. You're insane. You signed the contract. It was all there in black and white. You agreed to it. But I didn't read. That's your fault, not ours. The technician interrupts. Stacey, hold him down while I administer the anesthesia. We really don't have the time to waste. The orange-shirted smiler lumbers over, and I keep my eyes trained on her keys. Her manicured hands dig into my arms, and my heart races even faster. The key. I've gotta get the key. She puts all her weight into me, her sickly sweet breath puffing in my face, her white teeth wide in front of me. I thrash my head forward, clashing with her jaw. She fumbles backwards, holding her face, and my hand shoots for her side. But a second pair of hands claw into my back. With adrenaline-fueled rage, I push backwards and slam the technician into the wall. The keys. The staff member kneels on the floor, holding her face as blood drips through her fingers. With one almighty kick, I send her reeling, and the sound of the technician getting up rings out behind me. Before I'm able to think, and before he's able to yell, the keys are in my hand, and I'm fumbling them against the lock. Move, hands move. In my peripheral vision is the balding man approaching, and the key clacks into place just as he reaches out a hand. I slam the door behind me, locking it. The two remaining staff members don't have time to react, and I lock them away too. The door is at the end of the hallway. I sprint towards it as Ramirez's words echo in my head. Once you go through that door, there is no going back. I thrash my hands against the metal bulkhead. Once I notice the lack of a handle, it must open from the outside, from the customer side. There has to be an exit. There must. How else would the staff get out? I could wait for the customers to come in when Lisa comes to see what they've done. But what if another customer comes through staff in tow? No, I have to get out now. There must be a way. I notice a keyhole on the bulkhead and try the key in hand to no avail. All I can do is check the rooms one by one. Surely one of them must have the right key. Room four, that's where I was supposed to go. Let's start at room one, nowhere better to start than the beginning. I test the cold metal handle unlocked. The first thing that hits me is the smell, rotting meat. The room is decorated like an abattoir, stark white and freezing cold with cruel metal hooks on the wall. On each one is a carcass, pigs, cows, chicken, and something else. It's limp, skinless, veiny. Its head is missing and it looks almost hollow, but something in my mind knows exactly what it is. What it was, the desecrated lump of flesh is wrong, not just morally. It feels factually wrong. I'm not supposed to see this. No one is. Mr. Davis, middle-aged. They brought him in first. Vomit decorates my shoes and I close the door behind me before a second spurt makes itself known. All that matters is getting out, finding the key. Still, I lock the door. He shouldn't be on display like that. Room number two, I try not to consider what could be inside. No use breaking twice. The door creaks open and this time the sound strikes me first, crying, small pathetic sobs. Jack Amos is restrained in a straight jacket, wire crisscrossing through red holes around his mouth. His eyes tear into me, a mix of hatred and terror. I scan the room quick as I can, no key. I lock the door. I want to help him, but there's nothing I can do. I don't want to keep that image in my mind, so I keep it permanently out of sight and out of earshot. Thank God for the soundproofing. What's behind door number three? I think in the voice of an overexcited game show host, I have to laugh. If I don't, I don't know if I can carry on. I try to recount who it will be next, who was the next person to go through the doors. I remember, and this one is particularly abhorrent, but I have to get the key. All that matters is the key. When I open the third door, it isn't the smell or the sound, but the image that stops me in my path. I could recognize that pink bow anywhere. Her head was backwards. It seems her father is an exorcist fan. A key sits on the bed in front of the girl. I take it and close the door behind me, locking away my guilt. I have the key. Nothing is stopping me from leaving, but the richest of fruits has turned to ashes in my mouth. No image can grasp my mind. All I can see is her. I hear the door at the other end of the corridor begin to open, and I look at my escape. I run and I keep running, pushing past confused people in the customer side waiting room. The second I get outside, I break down. That's the story. I couldn't face my girlfriend after that. Try therapy. I'm actually on my fifth therapist now. And to this day, I still can't stand a horror movie.