The Scare Actor Chronicles
2 chaotic days in LA’s Haunted Hayride
‘Twas a long and arduous strike-fueled unemployment. With an existential crisis brewing out of every Sunday “scary”, a dwindling bank account, and a lack of purpose so anxiety-inducing that my only chance of falling asleep was to binge watch National Dog Shows on YouTube - I forced myself to become curious. Get creative. Thousands (or, rather, dozens, or…idk, several?) of opportunities just outside the realm of my typical standards were awaiting me on the so-called “market”. And why shouldn’t I explore them? I had nothing to lose besides pride. And my pride was long gone.
Become a librarian? I thought perhaps. Apply to Barnes and Noble? Why the hell not. Full time TikToker? I quickly lost steam. Submitting application after application into the black hole portal with no end in sight, I felt lost. Hopeless. Not one call for an interview. Not one confirmation of receipt. I twiddled my thumbs, sighing audibly, obsessively synonymizing a single word on my resume when suddenly, an email appeared. Had my calls for purpose - and a paycheck - been answered?
Join Us! It read. We cordially invite you to audition to be a Scare Actor for the spine-chilling Los Angeles Haunted Hayride. Now, as a Clue-obsessed, murder mystery party enthusiast, I have to admit that they had me at “cordially invite”. Not only did this feed into my love of Halloween and all things spooky season, but tapped into my long lost childhood dreams of acting. I felt awakened! Rejuvenated! Inspired! The words glistened on my screen. Longing for something (anything) to do and wanting to embrace the experiences the universe had in store for me (thank you, Gabby Bernstein Manifesting Course I definitely did not do properly) - I clicked apply. This was my year of Why Not. If nothing less, it would make for a funny story.
The Audition
After receiving my audition details (!!) I immediately roped in my up-for-anything best friend. Sure this was all fun and games, but not alone. Come on, I’m not insane. An actor and fellow scream queen herself, I knew we would die (hopefully not literally but the possibility was there) over this shared experience. She promptly applied and we locked in the same audition slot. Once the plan was in place we finally thought to wonder - why did they need our social security number?
My friend (who shall remain nameless to avoid public shame and scrutiny for utterly deserting me in the depths of horror maze “work”)1 met me on a hot August Thursday in the Griffith Park parking lot. We stumbled around, frantically studying the confirmation emails and chaotic photo attachments to no avail. “Orange and black balloons would guide the way” they said, as we saw nothing more than a lost, deflated black balloon rolling by like a tumbleweed. Finally we were directed to an unpaved dirt path that led to a group of at maximum ten people standing in a patch of grass. Three folding chairs were placed equidistant in front of a gray, plastic table. This was the audition? Not quite as summer camp chic as we anticipated.
The audition finally commenced after a watching-paint-dry 25 minutes where the hopes of a larger audition pool were dashed. We were to line up, and one by one approach the three chairs as a scary character of our creation. By no means should we break character. By all means should we do our damndest to scare the pants off that cupholder clad armrest. As I readied my cackling witch performance, a trickling of stage fright bubbled in my stomach. I wondered if this was just regret.
When the audition was over they said they’d be in touch, and that was that. I was hoping to learn some little details like what the hours or dates or pay was, but so as not to seem pushy or difficult or hurt my chances of getting this all important job offer - I let it be. That was my first mistake. (Unless you consider applying and attending the audition to be the first and second in which case, call this the third).
So we went home, and waited, and laughed, and rolled our eyes, and made fun of everything (including ourselves), until FINALLY…an offer letter! Now, not just cordially invited to audition, but cordially invited to star.
Getting Oriented (Or Not)
My first call for duty was in mid-September, in another, different, patch of grass in Griffith Park. An orientation to prepare us with all the necessary details that was moreso an awkward mingle sesh between all the - let’s call them interesting - people who accepted this job. Most were “regulars”, eagerly awaiting this all year long and excitedly oversharing their character’s familial trauma and life choices that were to influence their performance. Okayyyy? I frantically searched for SOMEONE I could relate to, to bring me back to reality. My safety friend hadn’t shown up, and some of the actors were starting to pull out personal artifacts they brought from home to enhance their character. My romanticization of this quirky life experience was rapidly dwindling. Was this the makings of my starring Lost in a Cult in Griffith Park docuseries that audiences would be enjoying on HBO in 20 years? Don’t judge, I thought to myself as I started plotting my escape.
The orientation that promised to run from 5-6pm and provide all necessary answers and details we may need - did neither such thing. I finally took the initiative to ask upon signing out, at 8:30pm, if the schedule was for everyday or if there were two shift options. To which the response was a laughing, sarcastic: “You don’t want to work everyday?” Ummm… “It would make sense for there to be two shifts, wouldn’t it? You would think it would be organized like that, wouldn’t you?” The confusion ran deeper. Why was this so weird and ominous? Why did this woman give the impression that she’d rather someone murder her in a gory, Saw-inspired contraption than continue running this event? Not even rather. Seemed like she was hoping for someone to put her out of her misery.
Suffice it to say this was not an answer, nor helpful, nor a good start, and all I had been oriented to over three and a half hours was a very specific subsection of Los Angeles acting culture I had no business being in. I gave her a sorry smile and backed away, proceeding to get so lost on the way to my car that I soon found myself stumbling through the weeds behind a baseball field in the pitch blackness, an old man appearing out of the shadows asking if I needed help. I did need help. Lots of it.
The Rehearsal
Two days later I dragged my friend kicking and screaming to our first (and only) “rehearsal”. We were put into our mazes, assigned our roles, but not before an hour long improv game where 60 of us had to take turns jumping into the center of a circle and scaring everyone with our performance. My god, my personal hell.
I was assigned the role of “kitchen victim number 1” in the Hellbilly Maze. My friend was ripped away to a different group and when we were told the mazes have zero interaction throughout the work night, I never saw her again.2 She bailed and left me riding solo in a commitment I felt too bad to bail from - because I'm self-sabotaging that way. I do wish I had her nerve.
The Hellbilly Maze was new this year, telling the thoughtfully crafted story of inbreeding evil hillbillies led by “Grampy Sarge” wielding rusty tools and “Mama Jasper” wielding the love of her half pig son. A cute little romp, no? Unlike the two other tried and true mazes, this one had lots of kinks to iron out. Lucky me.
Needless to say, this rehearsal was sheer chaos.
Step one: retrieve my costume. Thrown together by a costume department whose list did not include “kitchen victim” (of course), I was gifted a green sparkly tutu and fuzzy pink vest. Got it. A bloody white tank top was hidden underneath two more layers of neon patterns and chaotic fabrics, as I quietly wondered what the point of it all was. But let them have their art, I guess.
Step two: get herded off to our maze like sheep to their slaughter. They lined us up and took us one by one through the maze, placing us in position. When it got to my turn, “the kitchen” I was victim to was nowhere to be found. After being thrown into rooms and crevices, behind shower curtains and under tables, my “set” was located near the very end of the maze. A huge, separate enclosed space I was to man, entirely alone. But…I’m a victim. Shouldn’t someone be, idk, with me? I was given creative freedom and told to “use the space, however I wanted.” Great. I had accidentally signed up for a one woman dinner theater performance. Looking beside me at the open door, a crisp, grassy outside not two steps away, I asked to no answer: Wouldn’t I just run away?
Step three: maze run-through. And run-through. And run-through. Pacing around in my assigned zone, in the dark, entirely alone, anxiety and dread bubbled up faster than a fifth grade science experiment. We waited for hours as logistics and notes crackled over walkie talkies, at which point some fellow scare actors took interest in befriending disturbing me. One man, wearing an adult baby mask and a floral dress, called me “little one”, touched my hair and made a weird joke about “bonking me over the head” when I wasn’t looking. Another man chased me around with a chainsaw after I explained how much I hated chainsaws. Here I was, now victim not just to the kitchen but to the seedy underbelly of Scare Actor Society, an eclectic community to which I did not belong and desperately needed to escape. By midnight I was still there, “acting scary”, but the real horror was in wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.
Commencing The Show
Finally, the fateful day arrived. 5pm sharp, making sure we parked in the very far away, very inconvenient, 20 minute uphill walk away parking lot reserved for the employees. Go straight to costumes, then get in line for makeup. I was told to get prosthetics to which I thought, cool. It was not cool. I waited in line for this until 8pm, well after the scare shift had commenced, due to ‘unforeseeable technical issues’. When I finally got in there, they sprayed me down with glue/paint/gloop/alcohol/god knows what else as I flinched and gagged and regretted. Apparently I was the only person in my whole maze to get prosthetics done. How did I get so lucky! Again! I was told this at the end of the night when I had to get the glued on prosthetics alcoholically removed from my (very sensitive) skin by the pros. And sitting there, skin burning and petroleum jelly globbed all over my face, I didn’t wonder why.
When I finally got into my position as totally-alone-yet-somehow-not-escaping Kitchen Victim, shit started to get real. I was thrust into the dark room with sighs of gratitude for my arrival, and left to my own devices to get to scaring. Then, GUESTS started coming in. My god, what had I done. What was I supposed to do? My stomach churned. All that I literally could do, was shriek. Pop out of the shadows and shriek my idiot brains out. And that worked, for a time. But incase you didn’t know, shrieking over and over and over is painful. So I tried to give my lungs a rest and throw in some dialogue. “Help me!” I screamed. “Please!” I quivered. And oh Jesus was this a newfound low. One guest laughed in my face. Another looked so far down on me and told me to “help myself”. Boy how I wish I could.
So back to screaming I went. And the people trickled in. And the time ticked by - though I had no idea what time it was or how long I had been there or how much longer was left because not only was there not a clock but I had no watch or phone. Our maze being severely understaffed, and having not received any details on a break schedule, I quickly realized I was trapped. I started feeling the tingles of a panic attack arise as I grew desperate for a sip of water, vision blurring and darkening, no sense of how much longer I would be forced to stand there, the shadows of a guest’s impending footsteps utterly crippling me as I geared up for another jump and shriek. My bowels were becoming irritable. My chest was tightening. My throat raw. But I persevered, nonetheless. Wondering if this was legal.
My panic rose, along with my complete annoyance. I was an un-directed, unscripted, one woman show, and I did not appreciate it! Dozens of guests entered my space wielding their flash-lit phones like armor, making sure to capture my humiliation for all their TikTok followers to see. Who films in a haunted maze, btw? So uncourteous. Some had the likes of professional filmmaking equipment slugged around their bodies - lights, even a boom, leaving me desperate to know if I was soon to be the uncredited star of someone’s obscure short film. One guy lurked and swarmed around me capturing angle after angle until finally I stared deep into his soul and screamed so loudly he stumbled backwards, tearing off into the darkness.
In between my blacking out panic, I allowed for some fascination over the parents absolutely living for their child’s terror. Some locking eyes with me, pleading to “get him, get him” as their kid clutched onto them while choking on quiet sobs. Of course, I obliged, but not before first wondering how much therapy is going to cost them down the road.
The one silver lining I clung to for dear life was the amount of compliments guests were throwing me for my phenomenal scream. My growing ego almost made the pain bearable. I’d spend the rest of my night - between bouts of crippling anxiety - mulling over if I’d missed my calling as a scream queen. Ryan Murphy? Jamie Lee Curtis? I’m avail. (Incase that wasn’t abundantly clear).
Night 2: The Final Curtain
The second night an organized break schedule was put into place, giving us higher hopes for the night’s run after the mess of yesterday. We were to work 45 minutes, then break for 30, 3 times over until closing a little after 11pm. That seemed doable. I also slipped my phone into my leggings this time, so I had some ability to quickly sneak a time check. Things were looking up…for exactly 30 minutes.
The organized schedule quickly derailed as our lead ran around frantically with his walkie and headset, telling us “The CEO is not happy.” “The CEO needs more bodies in the maze.” “The CEO says it's too empty.” Excuse me CEO, but you try ‘scare acting’ in 10 layers of clothing covered in prosthetic makeup screaming at the top of your lungs for a consistent 2 hours with no break. Just try it. You see how you like it. Also! If you don’t like how empty it is, hire more people! If any of my many lawyer friends are interested in taking me on as a disgruntled scarer, lmk.
One actor didn’t break for 3 hours, although that was his choice. Wielding his chainsaw and sweat pouring from his mask, I started to question where the line is drawn for some of these scare actor hobbyists, for whom their life’s pleasure is derived from the act, and art, of scaring. Where does he end and the inbred hillbilly begin? I digress.
So back to the never ending shift we went. And due to even LESS scare actors, I was moved to man an even larger space. I took it upon myself to stand in the shadows by a metal barrel, bang on it and stumble around, creepily. No more shrieking. Kitchen Victim became sketchy zombie girl. (You saw my makeup. It worked.) As I stumbled back and forth, swaying my head around, eyes wide, tongue practically flopping out of my mouth channeling the hell out of almost-dead-kitchen-victim-zombie-girl, someone shouted that I was a “really good actor”. My misery had paid off. Maybe I should add this to my reel.
Without the distracting pain of screaming, my mind was free to observe and wander as I found myself growing angry at the whole experience. I felt like a prop, a doll, a fish in a bowl. It was getting annoying. Not only did cameras continue zooming into my face, but guests took the liberty of commenting at me. A coping mechanism, I concluded. Some kid called me hot in front of his “bros” and asked me out. Some older guy called me hot and considering my bloody, gloopy face, I took his sarcasm on the chin. A group of tweens laughed at me but said my hair looked amazing. (I had declined the 80s wig - because yeah, the evil inbreeding hillbilly plot was set in the 80s, for absolutely no logical reason). After a good scare, a man clutching his lady mumbled slightly too loud - “what is wrong with that girl?” A lot, my friend. A lot is wrong with that girl.
I wanted so desperately to stop swaying and banging and scaring and just walk out of there. Was was I doing??? What was it all for? Scare Acting was no match for The Existential Crisis. She hath returned.
But I did not stop. I continued dying of dehydration and shame, and when the clock struck midnight I ran to my car and became a pumpkin, shriveling into the darkness.
The End
Two grueling days of scare acting had sent me over the edge. I had never quit anything in my life, but enough was enough. I resolved to never go back. And go back, I did not.
On Monday, I met up with a colleague. She asked what I had done over the weekend, prompting nervous laughter and a cold sweat over the flashbacks of my deep, dark, dirty little secret. I begrudgingly informed of my participation in the LA Haunted Hayride. “I know. It’s really random.” I said, well aware of the comedy that is my life.
“I don’t love this journey for you”, she responded. I wasn’t particularly crazy about the journey for myself, either. But hey. It’ll make a good story.
Won’t it?
Inspired by David Sedaris’ Santaland Diaries, which took the crisis out of the existentialism and helped me see a purpose in it all. Thanks to
for giving me the nudge.Just kidding, her name is Amanda. Get her.
I did actually see her again, in case you were worried. But not there. She texted later that her maze dismissed her early. Liar.