It was Halloween in a small community in South Carolina where we lived in the late 70s. Our church youth wanted to host a Haunted House for the town, scare them half to death, then tell them how to be saved and go to heaven at the end. We felt it was as good a plan as any.
It sounded like a lot of fun, so we agreed.
There was an old house on an acre of land nearby, and the owner said we could use it. So we got busy.
First, we had to rake out the massive piles of brush and leaves that covered the ground. Then, some of the boys spread sulfur around the area to get rid of snakes. To me, that made it a perfectly horrifying place before adding in scenery!
Next, we divided up rooms in the house and decided what would go where. We had a guide who would take the visitors to each room.
Of course, there was a room where a big guy would wear a mask and start up a chain saw.
We had a room with the appropriate cow eyes, intestines, and what not, designed to gross out everyone, including the people stuck with the job of putting those delicacies in pans to show the patrons.
We had a room with a “crazy woman” behind bars who tried to escape and kill people, and as patrons walked past, her door would suddenly swing open, and she would charge at everyone. That caused a lot of shrieking (from her and the patrons).
We had the crazed doctor operating room, and a few other favorites, mainly borrowed from horror flicks throughout the years.
And the last room was for me. I was Dracula’s bride.
Now, I detest being scared. I despise horror movies, hate haunted houses, and avoid being frightened at all costs. But nothing is more fun than scaring others, especially people in my opinion who are dumb enough to come to a haunted house.
We set up my room with a black light. We added fake spider webs everywhere, and since it was a really old house, the scenery was perfect: walls were peeling, and it smelled dank and musty.
We contacted the local funeral home, and lo and behold, they had an old casket that had arrived at their location damaged, so they just stored it. They said we could borrow it.
I added a stand with a candelabra, set the casket on a cloth covered table, and everything was ready to go.
Now for my costume.
Thinking about it, I delved into my closet and pulled out my lace wedding gown. Holding my breath, I managed to squeeze myself into it. I whitened my face and hands with makeup, darkened under my eyes, added red lipstick, inserted fangs, and attached long black nails to my fingers. With my long dark hair, I looked downright awful. It was wonderful.
My husband helped me climb into my casket, then he disappeared before people came. As visitors were ushered into my room, I lay there, with my hands crossed over my chest, and tried my best not to giggle.
The guide ushered people near the casket, telling the story of Dracula’s bride. The visitors were encouraged to get close to the casket where I was lying to get a good look at me.
At that point and with fiendish glee, I would raise up and hiss at them. Every single person would jump back, scream, and run. I had a blast.
Until the end.
When we closed down, everyone went outside congratulating each other on their outstanding performances. Except for me. I couldn’t get out of the casket.
The inside was lined with slick, white satin, as soft as a baby’s bottom. I just kept sliding back down with every attempt to move. To make matters worse, the bottom half of the casket had been closed and was stuck. I literally couldn’t get out.
I began to yell for help, but everyone was whooping and hollering outside, laughing and telling stories about how they had scared the visitors. No one could hear me. This began to get serious and in my frantic pursuit of trying to escape from my casket, I felt the zipper in my wedding gown give way and pop open.
I don’t know if my husband had the premonition that I was going to kill him if I ever got out of there, but he suddenly remembered me and ran to help me out of my satin prison. Of course, I gave him an earful, but he held my dress together at the back while we made it to the car and went home. All in all, though, it had been a lot of fun.
Many years later, my baby sister called and asked if she could borrow my wedding gown. She wanted to get married, and my dress would be the “something old”. Of course I said yes, but she needed to know that the zipper was broken.
She had it fixed, and to this day she still has no idea how the zipper broke on that the gown she proudly wore down the aisle. After all, it had once belonged to Dracula’s bride!
