My first haunted house experience was when I was 13 or 14. My aunt Christi and uncle Chris took me to the haunted house. I was so scared. I don’t do scary… we walked in, and I had my aunt in front of me, and uncle behind me, and I’m sure I was holding onto my aunt for dear life. There were black lights and strobes so it was a bit difficult to see clearly. We went around a corner, and all of a sudden a guy with glasses comes out of no where. He scared me, and I thought he’d go away, to go scare people behind us, but no such luck. He grabbed onto my shoulder and followed us. I was terrified at this point. Not only am I in a haunted house, it’s my first one, and there’s this random guy walking along beside me. He probably would have been scarier if not for his glasses on the outside of his mask, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I might have kicked his foot. It might have gotten him to let go of me. I’m not proud, but I was scared, and found out later they’re not supposed to touch you. I have never been back to a haunted house. It’s not my thing. I like to say I’m good enough at scaring myself, that I don’t need any help. It’s probably true, but I’m sure my first experience didn’t help matters.
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