Playing dead for a day

A haunted house might be fun, but it's hard work making people scream

By Mike Pearson, Rocky Mountain News (Contact)

Published October 30, 2008 at 7 p.m.
Updated October 30, 2008 at 11:49 p.m.

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Video Video: The Rocky sent reporter Mike Pearson to The Asylum haunted house in Northglenn to find out what goes on behind the scenes. Watch »

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Photo by Ellen Jaskol / The Rocky

At The Asylum in Northglenn, Mike Pearson, center, and his chain saw-wielding buddy Mike Samarzia get a scream out of Lisa Staack, 23, right, and her brother, Andrew Winberg, 13, of Berthoud. The chain saw was nonfunctioning.

Photo by Ellen Jaskol / The Rocky

Mike Pearson, sans zombie makeup

Photo by Ellen Jaskol / The Rocky

Makeup artist Midian Crosby applies liquid latex to Mike Pearson's face to create an exposed eye socket and hole in Pearson's head.

Photo by Ellen Jaskol / The Rocky

Mike Pearson's transformation into zombie is complete with airbrushed gray and white, along with some fake blood.

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The assignment is simple: Spend time working at a haunted house to see what makes people scream. Explore the mechanics of fright. Be that thing that goes bump in the night.

I don't like to scare people. When I was 11 I intentionally startled my mother once, and she slapped me so hard my wisdom teeth self-extracted.

Horror movies are OK, but I prefer suspense over gore. When my teenage godson visits, he can't understand my reluctance to watch a triple feature of Saw movies. When I want to make my pulse race I look at my mortgage statement, I tell him. Could I be any less cool?

All of which explains how I find myself at The Asylum at 120th Avenue and Interstate 25 in Northglenn on a Thursday night, preparing to inhabit a world where people pay good money to jump out of their skin.

Warren Conard, 35, who co-owns The Asylum (as well as The 13th Floor at Interstate 70 and Monaco Street), was quite gracious when I told him what I was after. "Show up at 6 p.m. and we'll get you in hair and makeup," he said.

What I didn't count on was that staffing a haunted house is hard work. The people who visit have it easy. All they have to do is anticipate terror. Those who manufacture it have to be at their manic best all the time. Constantly screaming at the top of their lungs is a surefire recipe for an aneurysm.

Why do we like to be scared? Medical texts credit it to an adrenaline rush, a fight-or-flight response that increases the acuity of our senses. We crave control in our lives, yet occasionally we'll seek out the absence of it.

And so it begins . . .

I'm 10 minutes late arriving at The Asylum, which is situated in the parking lot of Boondocks Fun Center. From the outside, it looks like a series of double-wide trailers, with black plastic sheets, painted plywood and gray Styrofoam masking the 5,500 feet of orchestrated terror. Conard directs me to the makeup trailer, which looks like a Tuff Shed with several stools in it. Two women are brandishing airbrushes. On the table between the women are jars of makeup and a bucket of liquid latex.

Midian Crosby will be doing my makeup. She asks what I want to be. "How about Denzel Washington?" I reply. She doesn't seem to think that's funny. Apparently, I'll be a zombie and like it. I remove my glasses and don a smock. Midian reaches into the latex bucket and withdraws a handful of what feels like wet cotton. "We're going to give you an exposed eye socket," she tells me, then she begins applying the material to my face. After about 15 seconds she stops, suddenly concerned. "You're not allergic to latex are you?" I shake my head and wonder whether I should fake a seizure.

Other would-be zombies enter the trailer. The men and women who staff The Asylum work for minimum wage. I passed several of them already in costume on my way into makeup. Their blood-spattered smocks and ghoulish faces remind me of a casting call for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Yet they are jovial in these moments before the mayhem.

I ask Midian the secret to playing a zombie. "It helps if you make guttural sounds, like you're about to throw up," she says. "The important thing is to be loud."

My makeup is nearly done. I have an exposed eye socket and a hole in my head that looks like it was made by a bullet. Midian airbrushes grays and reds around the latex, then uses a hair dryer to seal it. Then she applies highlights to my hands with an airbrush. She wants them to look skeletal, not like the boiled hams I walked in with.

One of the other actors reports 40 people in line waiting for the house to open. No one says "Break a leg." Through an open window I hear the sound of motors. It's the Boondocks go-cart track. Teenagers are driving. Now that's scary.

I finally get a look at Midian's handiwork. Except for the lack of an Afro, it could be my high school graduation photo. I look like one of those nasty tribal chiefs from the James Bond movie Live and Let Die. At least no one plays Michael Jackson's Thriller. I grab a bloody surgeon's gown and make my way to The Asylum.

Stumbling along, I make a mental note to e-mail George Romero with a technical question: If a person wears glasses before he becomes a zombie, does his eyesight improve once he's undead? I can't wear glasses tonight because it will smudge my makeup. Everything is a blur. I figure I'll hear the go-cart before I feel the tires should I head in the wrong direction.

I'm assigned to a small room that could pass for the prop shed from CSI; severed arms and legs dangle from hooks on the ceiling. I meet my "roommate," Mike Samarzia, 21, a veteran of the haunted house scene. How did he get the job?

"I was driving down the road five years ago and I saw a sign that said 'Haunted House Actors Wanted,' " he explains.

Samarzia is a born showman; he does magic in his spare time.

It takes about 20 minutes for visitors to make their way through The Asylum, which, as the name implies, mimics an abandoned mental hospital. I ask Magic Mike what I should say to scare people.

"You might try WELCOME TO HELL!" he growls. "It's all about surprise; you've gotta be loud." Why does everyone keep telling me to be loud? Did I suddenly morph into a mime?

I sit on a rusty milk can and wait. Through the dark, I can see the first group of visitors heading in our direction. I figure I'll pop up just as they enter the room and do my thing.

It's a group of three girls. When I leap to my feet and scream, "WELCOME TO HELL!" the lead girl screams and jumps back into her companions.

Then all three laugh and scoot past me as if I was a rack of sale items they can't afford.

I'm wondering how effective I've been when Mike shows me how it's really done. His choice phrase? "YOU'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!" followed by the realistic roar of a chain saw.

This time all three girls scream and take off like that sale rack is filled with snakes.

I'm impressed.

For the next hour the routine is pretty much the same. Groups pass through, I jump up and scream, they either react in terror or look at me with curiosity.

I notice that guys who go through haunted houses try their hardest not to react. Apparently, they don't want their girlfriends to know they've got nerve endings.

I yell, "Welcome to hell!" at several groups of males, and they respond with things like "Been there, done that" or "I already work in hell."

I ponder screaming something more effective, like "VOTE MCCAIN!" but I'm afraid it'll land me on a Republican mailing list. And the last thing I need is more solicitations for plastic furniture covers.

Most of the 30 actors and technicians at The Asylum work five hours a night. I'm pretty beat after just one. I'm hungry. My knees hurt from all that jumping up and down. And I've yet to make anyone pass out or wet themselves.

Maybe I need to lower my standards for success. At least no one doubled over with laughter.

I take my leave from the room of severed limbs and skeletons on the wall and wonder anew at why people want to be scared. Sure, it's like spending time in your own horror movie, but with an escape clause. And, yes, the most effective houses embrace the macabre, from zombies to spiders to clowns.

No one ever died of fright having a Keebler elf come screaming down from the rafters brandishing shrink-wrapped cookies. (Come to think of it, that would be pretty scary.)

I walk to my car still wearing the zombie makeup. I hope I don't get stopped for speeding. What am I going to do, scream "Welcome to hell!" to a cop? In Northglenn?

I'm supposed to meet friends at a bar. Should I go still wearing the makeup, or should I wait until the more forgiving light of closing time, when even those who look like zombies have a shot at love?

Evolution of a zombie

How did Mike Pearson go from mild-mannered Rocky writer to minion of hell? With help from makeup artist Midian Crosby. Look at our series of photos to see how Crosby used latex, an airbrush and some fake blood to create an exposed eye socket and hole in Pearson's head.

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