Since it’s Halloween, let me tell you the story of the haunted house that wasn’t. 

Two years ago, Everest was 4, and somehow he determined that he desperately wanted to go to a haunted house.

However, this is a child who gets spooked easily — he squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears during parts of “Moana.” So I knew better than to take him to the Bloody Frightmare Serial Killer Corn Maze or some such thing that would traumatize him for life. 

Then I saw an ad from a restaurant here called Dringk or Drangk, (I can never remember which one), promoting their kid-friendly activities, including a haunted house. 

The ad specifically said, “Come and enjoy our haunted house.” 

I told Everest about it, and he was stoked. For a couple weeks, he talked about the haunted house nonstop and bragged that he was going to be so brave. I smiled and agreed, even though I knew this was a rather vanilla place in a pedestrian mall we were talking about here. I figured this would be a spooky corner with construction paper spiders. Maybe a witch would pop out from behind a screen. BOOM. Haunted house, done.

On Halloween night, we got dressed up and headed out early to beat the crowds. Everest chattered about the haunted house the whole way there. 

We were the first people to arrive at Dringk/Drangk, so I asked the hostess if we could do the haunted house before sitting down to dinner. 

“We don’t have a haunted house,” she said. 

I pulled out the ad. 

“This says you do.” 

“No,” the hostess laughed. “I think they meant, like, enjoy the essence of a haunted house. Like, for a night we have the vibe of a haunted house.”

My son didn’t want a vibe. He wanted an actual haunted house.

I hissed and said something to that effect. And then I think I begged. I didn’t even need a good haunted house. Just something haunted-adjacent. A creepy warehouse. A cobwebby garage. Anything to prevent me from becoming the broken husk of a mom who just ruined Halloween.

“There’s a haunted house around the corner,” the hostess said. 

That’s all I needed to hear. I grabbed Everest’s hand and flew around the corner to another storefront marked with a simple haunted house sign. There was no line, which seemed unusual on Halloween. There was also no obvious sign about ticket prices, so I assumed it would be pricey. If I have to ask, it’s almost always too expensive. 

I pulled out my phone, logged on the wifi of a nearby BBQ place, and started searching for a Groupon. I was still scrolling through the phone when I flung open the door. 

Everest and I stepped inside. 

I thought there’d be a desk or a counter. At the very least, someone taking money. But there wasn’t. 

It was empty. 

The walls were draped with sheets and there were blood splatters everywhere. We saw a few hospital bed-looking things, but nobody was in them. 

“Hello?” I called out.

Nobody answered.

We walked further into the building. 

Silence.

I thought maybe this was part of the thing, so I braced myself for the maniacal, chainsaw-wielding surgeon to come raring out of the shadows. 

Nothing. 

I approached another set of drapes, and my muscles stiffened as I imagined every monster that might leap at us, every gory, unholy thing that I might find. I tugged a sheet back.

Again, nothing. Imagine being on a roller coaster and the drop never comes. 

“Mommy, this is weird.”

I exhaled. He was right. An abandoned fake haunted house in an outdoor mall was very weird. 

“Let’s go, baby.” I tugged on E’s hand and led him out of the building. 

It was genuinely the scariest haunted house I’ve ever been to, because anticipating the worst turned out to be worse than any masked man or howling ghoul. That’s where real terror exists —in everything I conjured and how I held that dread in my body. Not what happened.

As for Everest, he still believes himself to be very brave. But now he also thinks haunted houses are boring.

When I stayed at an ashram in India, we woke up at 5:30 every morning to sit cross-legged on the floor of a large room for meditation and mantra chanting. And every morning during the Jaya Ganesha chant, the ashram leaders passed out instruments — bells and finger cymbals and wooden blocks — at random.

Every morning I wanted the tambourine. I hungered for it. I wanted it so badly, it became the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and that in itself became part of my meditation. Even though I was chanting as the leaders wandered the temple space, my eyes signaled my wanting. I had to have that tambourine.

FINALLY, on one of my last days, somebody handed it to me. It was like getting a shot of serotonin. My heart exploded with such joy, I played the shit out of that tambourine. I shook it and clapped it and wiggled it, coaxing what I thought was beautiful music from it, so happy to finally let my tambourine light shine.

Then someone from the ashram took it back. HE TOOK IT BACK. He ripped the instrument right out of my hands and shot me a dirty look. I guess I let my tambourine light shine a little too much.

I keep thinking back on that moment now, as I’m living in a vast, strange, empty space waiting for early reviews of my book. It’s an unpleasant limbo state, hoping for the best, bracing myself for the worst. I’m as excited as I am anxious. And I’m not a patient person anyway, so just the waiting part sucks too. I desire so much.

Realistically, I know my book won’t be for everyone. I know I can be too much. Not everyone wants to hear my tambourine.

But I’m going to keep shaking it anyway.