At Screams Zombies Need Brains

The Trail of Terror is staffed by 12 or 13 actors, and the average age of a Trail ghoul is 35. Most other haunts at Screams are staffed by teenagers, but Hopps' bunch is a tight-knit group of friends who convene twice a year for Scarborough Faire and then Screams. Their headquarters is Hopps' Monster Museum, which serves as a Faire attraction and then as the entrance to the Trail, which snakes behind it for Halloween. Everyone has a stake in the Trail, working not for an hourly wage but for a cut of the $7 admission charge. It's a scare collective. That's why, before the park opens each night, the group circles around for their signature chant.

"Whose house is this?" Hopps yells.

"MY HOUSE!" we scream, pumping our clawed, gloved fists in the air. It is time to get our scare on. The Trail has trap doors that actors slip through to access other parts of the haunt, because the Trail is quite long, and with so few actors, we have to sprint from one side to another to get two or three good scares in per group of people.

At first, I am a deep-voiced zombie, advising trail-goers that I am going to suck their brains out. I learn quickly that putting the word "suck" into play when there are teenage boys wandering through is a poor idea.

"I'll give you something you can suck on!" one snaps back, flipping his shaggy hair over his shoulder. First, I am offended. And then Kelly, the ice golem, jumps out from behind a corner and the kid lets out a shrill scream.

Later, a group of bandanna-clad guys wearing shiny chains move down a passage in a close huddle. I groan to myself—tough guys are no fun and hard to scare. But I climb into my secret hiding place—I won't say where, in case enterprising readers decide to check out the Trail—and wait for the hardasses to wander my way. Just as the middle bit of the group passes me, I jump out with an enthusiastic, "BRAAAAIIIIIIINS!" expecting groans and giggles. Instead, they sprint away, running as fast as guys with their pants slung low around their thighs can go.

This process goes on for hours, and when the park closes at 1:30 a.m., I'm exhausted and hungry. After we peel away our masks and costumes, the former trolls and ghouls pop open bottles of cold Shiner bock. Turns out, it goes great with brains. Num, num, num.