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The Haunted House That Would Give Any Mom Nightmares
As Halloween approaches, kids get excited about the spooky season. My little ones have been begging me to take them to a haunted house, one of those rural attractions with a hayride and actors splattered in fake blood jumping out to scare you.
But I’m not keen on going. They might think I’m just being boring, but the reality is, it’s not the traditional Halloween horrors that rattle me. Ghosts and ghouls don’t faze me in the least; it’s the real-life terrors that truly send chills down my spine.
For me, the scariest haunted house wouldn’t feature chainsaws or phantoms; it would be something far more insidious. Just think of this nightmare scenario:
I step through the entrance, greeted by a boy in a spaghetti-stained shirt that looks like it’s been worn for days. His hair is a mess and his face is grimy, yet he believes he’s perfectly presentable to welcome guests. He bombards me with nonsensical questions and cries of “Look at this, Mommy!” as I cautiously peek into the first horrific room.
This room sends shivers down my spine, filled with political campaign staffers wearing terrible toupees. On a flickering screen, the worst political ads play, overflowing with empty promises and mindless platitudes. They claw at my arms, shoving flyers into my trembling hands, desperately trying to persuade me to vote for their candidate while vilifying the opposition. I stumble away, paralyzed by confusion, unsure of which candidate is the lesser evil.
In the next room, a TV blares an episode of Caillou at full volume. I gasp in horror as I realize the only way to escape is to solve 25 impossible Common Core math problems.
The following room features a massive bonfire fueled by all my unpublished manuscripts. A witch who looks alarmingly like my high school English teacher dances around, screeching about the horrors of double negatives. I panic, trying to recall if I used the Oxford comma correctly. Is that dripping from her hands blood or ink from her red pen? I bolt from the room, screaming.
Next, I stumble into a gathering of impeccably dressed women, their conversations halting as they turn to scrutinize me. Their judgmental eyes pierce through my hole-ridden jeans and untied sneakers. I suddenly realize my bag doesn’t match my outfit, and dread washes over me. One overly-coiffed woman whispers to another about “that mom” and I feel the weight of their judgment. I brace myself for hours of awkward cucumber sandwiches and superficial chit-chat about the garden club.
Finally, I enter the last room to find my youngest child hunched over the kitchen sink, blasting Taylor Swift from my iPod. To my horror, she’s handwashing my fine china! I shout for her to be careful, but she can’t hear me over the music. She drops a wine glass, shattering it on my freshly cleaned floor, and then another…and another. I watch in despair as she reaches for my grandmother’s gravy boat, ushered out of the room, wailing in dismay while she rolls her eyes at me.
And that, my dear children, is the rundown of the true horrors that invade my nightmares. Keep your tame vampires and zombies; if you really want to terrify me, conjure up a haunted house like that.
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In summary, it’s the realities of motherhood—the chaos, the judgment, and the mess—that are truly terrifying, far more than any Halloween fright fest.