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closeWednesday, Oct. 14, 2009
Getting into character at Hangman's can be a real scream
Our intrepid reporter transforms into a ghoul and goes to work at a haunted house.
By MAC ENGEL
DFW.com
He has no idea I’m standing only a few feet away.
Because of the darkness and shadows, his vision is limited. The sound effects and music pumped in from the speaker system pulsate and have him slightly disoriented. His friends have already wandered into the next room, leaving him behind, warily navigating his way.
He has already been scared more than a few times on his nervous walk through this haunted house — and he has no idea what’s coming.
I jump out from the shadows and scream, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE! YOU DON’T BELONG HERE! GET OUT UNLESS YOU WANT TO DIE!"
His eyes pop, he lets loose an obscenity and falls on his butt. In haunted house terminology, this is called a "drop."
It’s at this moment that I feel the genuine thrill of scaring someone. It’s like a runner’s high — but noisier.
Many ghoulish people will volunteer at local haunted houses this Halloween season — dressing up and playing make-believe in the name of giving visitors a good scare.
Hangman’s House of Horrors is the oldest haunted house in Fort Worth and, every season, a cast of regulars and a batch of newbies congregate in their quest for fun at other people’s expense.
"This is $2,000 worth of therapy right here," says Jesse James of Fort Worth, a veteran of four seasons at Hangman’s. "This is fun, and I don’t have to pay anything for it, either."
Makeup’s a scream
It’s 5:30 p.m., and the private staging area of Hangman’s House of Horrors hums with activity. Nearly 150 volunteers are signing up. This is where friends meet to prepare for what will likely be a fright-filled four-hour shift. They’ve been coming back here for years, so much so that about 50 people met their spouses working here. Melissa Porter met her husband, Nate, at Hangman’s, and they are expecting their first child in February.
People apply ample amounts of makeup base, fake blood, latex and who knows what else to their faces in an effort to look like a werewolf, a deranged clown, a hillbilly or the undead. It’s at this point that I accept that I will never make it as a woman or do well in drag. Wearing makeup feels like having your face dipped in cake batter, only without the sugar. The costume woman hands me a red plaid shirt that I swear I wore in high school. We shred the sleeves with scissors, and I am ready to scare.
Up walks my Hangman’s guide for the evening, Fred Patterson. Clad in overalls and wearing a little bit of foundation on his face, he works the Hillbilly Room in Hangman’s.
"I want to create as much realism as I can so I don’t wear a lot of makeup," says Patterson, 47, who is working his 13th season.
Patterson has seen just about all there is to see during his time at Hangman’s. Literally. He’s been flashed once. He’s scared people so badly that they have fallen. They’ve urinated on themselves. They’ve vomited.
This may be fun, but Patterson takes the responsibility seriously. He has the story of his hillbilly scene played out to great detail.
"Our scene is the story of the hangman who was killed," Patterson said.
Patterson gives me a name for my character — Earl Wayne McDagen. Now I’m worried. I thought I was just screaming at kids. I didn’t know there were lines.
By roughly 7:15 p.m. all the actors are in makeup and costume. We look like the cast of the Michael Jackson Thriller video, and Hangman’s actor liaison Cory Kennedy runs through instructions and announcements, such as knowing where the emergency button is in your scene and when to take a break, if needed.
Above all else, he says, "Don’t touch the patrons."
Scare tactics
The Hillbilly Room is approximately the halfway point of Hangman’s main house. The set looks like a farm, complete with trees, an outhouse, the front of a home, etc. There are six actors dressed in appropriate hillbilly attire.
Wade Dowden is a 26-year-old former Marine who served a tour in Iraq and has worked haunted houses in Southern California. "I just get right in their face and scream at ’em," he says. "If anyone cops an attitude, just say, 'Thanks for your $20 bucks, dude’ and let ’em go. It’s not worth it. There are the people who like to be scared and have fun with it, but there are guys who think they’re tough and are too cool for it."
Around 8 p.m. the lights drop, and the music blares. It’s easy to see why this room is an ideal scare zone. It’s dark, and loaded with shadows.
On the other side of the door, there are shrieks and screams. A group of patrons has arrived in the Clown Room. Two minutes later, I see the feet and legs of patrons coming around a corner.
Wade jolts them with a few screams. Three people come through the shadows, holding each other, and I leap at them and scream with all the power my lungs can generate.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE! WHO WANTS TO DIE TONIGHT!"
"Dude, that’s good intensity," Wade says. This is a haunted house high-five.
The threesome is spooked and tries to keep walking around the corner. And just about the time they are ready to leave the scene, 16-year-old Ashley Casiano of Richland Hills jumps out from behind a door. Her scream sounds like those of Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween. Casiano keeps up the same intensity and the same pitch throughout her shift.
"It’s a gift," she says.
This is not the Steppenwolf Theatre. There are no real lines. For me, there is no real acting. It’s about screaming, jumping out of shadows, and not laughing when you get someone good. One teenage girl screamed back at me so well that I want to give her a job.
About an hour into the night, I learn that this scaring business isn’t easy. I am sweating. My right hamstring hurts. My makeup is running. I am short of breath. I have a headache.
I head to the first-aid center for some aspirin. I am, apparently, a haunted-house wimp.
It’s a wrap
Hangman’s House of Horrors has been successfully scaring people since 1989. It’s a collection of multiple scare zones in the main house and a few side attractions in separate buildings. One room features an actual small "crashed" Cessna airplane where a werewolf may be lurking. Another features live snakes (in a glass case).
"I would guess we change out 75 percent of the house every year; this year all but one room changed," Kennedy says. "It’s fun because we can be creative every year, and we don’t want the customer to get too familiar with the house."
Since this is the first Friday of October, it’s a slower night. The last ticket is sold at midnight, and all remaining patrons are allowed their trip through the grounds.
By 12:15 a.m., many of the actors have left. Costumes are stored. The cream for removing latex and makeup is running low. The actors exchange cigarettes and stories about the best scare of the night.
Maybe because it’s early in the season, there is no real drama tonight. No drunk or belligerent patrons who require an escort. No one makes a mess of themselves after a scare. No one faints. Security is not called.
"That’s when it can get uncomfortable," Kennedy says. "But most people who come to a haunted house have the right attitude."
The next night, some awards, complete with ribbons, will be given for Best Actor and "Terror Team," as evaluated by a local celebrity judge. These people aren’t here for awards or ribbons, and most of them will return, all in the name of scaring again.
By 12:30 a.m. the makeup on my face is gone, but traces of eyeliner make me look like Tammy Faye Bakker after a good cry. My vocal chords are so shot, I sound like Mickey Mouse.
I have no ribbon. I have no award. But I do have the memories of the perfect scare . . . because most of the people I encountered had no idea I was standing only a few feet in front of them.
MAC ENGEL, 817-390-7841
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