I recently spent a Saturday night crouching in the woods under a half-moon, wearing a werewolf mask and claws and a dark cloak. I was part of a three-person werewolf crew, enlisted to put the final scare on groups who braved the annual Bastyr University Haunted Trails fundraiser. Our station consisted of a muddy clearing at the end of the trail, where a tent with body parts and camping equipment strewn about were a testament to the recent slaughter of some unsuspecting fans of the great outdoors.
One of life's great opportunities is to find yourself in a brand new situation, seemingly unsuited for a task based upon preconceived notions ("I'm not a people person", "I'm shy", "I'm non-confrontational"). In this instance, I had doubts whether I had it in me to leap out at strangers menacingly. I tend to use my Pacific Northwest, Scandinavian-American, laid-back self-image as an excuse to avoid confrontation. I've never been an aggressive or argumentative person, and playing the role of a bloodthirsty werewolf where people are paying $12 to be confronted and frightened gave me pause.
The first few times I emerged from my hiding spot, sneaking up on groups' left as they were distracted by the tent to their right, I felt like a werewolf that behaved like me: respectful of personal space, hesitant to approach strangers, avoiding prolonged eye contact and thus hypothetical conflicts that I conjure up in my mind. My werewolf started out mute and tentative, apologetic for disturbing others. I elicited no reactions of surprise or terror, but surprise and terror are what people who go to Haunted Trails want to experience. After several lackluster attempts at ambushes, I decided to, pardon the self-help cliché, “feel the fear and do it anyway”.
There's an amazing moment during the behind-the-scenes featurette on the DVD of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining. Jack Nicholson mugs and charms his way through the much of the documentary, but there's a moment of preparation before shooting a scene in which he slowly, forcefully transforms his Jack persona into the deranged author-turned-homicidal maniac Jack Torrance. He clenches his teeth and heaves his body, steadily gaining force, growling "I am an ax-murderer, I am an ax murderer" over and over. He's like a boxer psyching himself up before the Round 1 bell of a prizefight, and it's an astonishing transformation.
This scene served as my inspiration to transform my hesitant, polite werewolf into an imposing, snarling monster preying upon trail walkers. Crouching in the shadows with my mask and claws, under a moonlit clearing, I thought about that Jack Nicholson moment. Following his lead, I gnashed my teeth and tensed my muscles, ready to lunge at each new group that emerged from the trail into the clearing. It was an exhilarating feeling to leave the non-threatening Teen Wolf behind and strive to be more like An American Werewolf in London.
As the night went on, I learned to profile each group based upon the screams and chatter overheard during their approach. Teenage girls would prove to be the best sports; they were the most easily spooked, the loudest screamers, and the most enthusiastic participants (teenage boys, full of insecurity and bravado, substituted attitude and sarcasm for enthusiasm). There was something deeply satisfying about eliciting genuinely frightened screams from strangers. They'd paid good money to be scared, and I was surprised to find that I thoroughly enjoyed obliging them.
Why do we love haunted houses and slasher films so much? Do we want the adrenaline rush, or the thrilling sensation of fear, knowing that these mediums don't pose an actual danger to our person? Perhaps modern middle-class life in industrial societies has had so many of its rough edges smoothed over that we crave the occasional opportunity to experience a fight-or-flight response in a controlled environment. Whatever the reasons for our love of being scared, I enjoyed doing the scaring as much as most of the trail walkers enjoyed being accosted by our werewolf trio.
At the end of the night, after almost five hours of lunging at over a thousand people, I thought of a scene from another film, American Beauty. As Kevin Spacey's character Lester Burnham starts to wake up from a 20-year state of suburban torpor, he marvels at his ability to challenge himself and, in the process, start to change his life:
"It's a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself."
I look forward to more surprises, now that the mask is off.
