Emma June Grosskopf

I’m sort of an enigma. I absolutely adore fall. I think the period from the middle of September to the end of October is the best month-and-a-half of the year, and I do love Halloween.

This is where me being an enigma comes in, because I do NOT do scary. I do cute, I do festive, I do warm and cuddly and pumpkin spice lattes and chunky sweaters and pumpkin patches and fuzzy socks and layering season.

(I do not, however, do raking the leaves. Me and manual labor? Yeah, no. Not my thing.)

I do not do scary. I don’t do spooky, I don’t do creepy and I don’t do haunted. Nope, nope, nope.

I might even go as far as to say, HECK no.

My version of Halloween is the cutesy one. I also went to college, so I understand the importance and cultural relevance of dressing up in a tasteless outfit and drinking cheap beer with other equally-tastelessly-dressed individuals. There’s a charm in that.

I’ve never dressed as anything scary in my life. In my youth, I dressed as everything from a green crayon to a pirate to a witch (classic, I know) to Cat Woman.

In my (tasteless) college years, I dressed as Lara Croft, a cop, a punk rocker, an 80s rock star (a little bit of a different look than the punk rocker. I traded in black lipstick and the tattoo sleeve for smiley-face print leggings and lots and LOTS of glitter), a queen and, of course, a cheetah.

But, because I’m funny, the year I dressed as a cheetah, I went around telling everyone I was Tiger Woods.

Get it? Because he cheated on his wife, which makes him…a cheetah?

OK, look, I’m funny.

Anyway, I don’t go for the spooky look, and one of my big “don’ts” is haunted houses.

I can’t do the jump scares, I hate people in masks, I get claustrophobic and realistically, I’m also just a wimp.

Hey, at least I’m honest about it.

So on Sunday, when I headed to Green Spring to check out the House of the Setting Sun, I wore my I’m-not-scared-of-anything coat (it’s snakeskin print) and brought my friend Jules along for moral support.

The coat didn’t work. The wimp factor rose to 100 and all I’ll say is that those folks up there did a good job. A great job, even.

The house hit all of the stuff that makes me cringe: blood and gore, ghouls, fake corpses, clowns (I mean, really. Who isn’t freaked out by clowns? That’s like, A-level scary stuff right there) and low ceilings and doorways.

What? Hitting my head is also scary, I maintain that position. Fear of having to duck through dark doorways is a real thing, I swear.

There was even a COVID-type twist on the whole thing, and I don’t want to give away all of their hard work before they even open to the public, but drawing from reality makes it even creepier.

You’ll see when you go. You may not see ME when you go, because I’ll be sipping warm apple cider in my fluffy slippers on my front porch, but I’m content in my wimpiness.

All those folks who have worked tirelessly and hopefully since Easter, though, deserve a standing ovation, because they’re providing an event that has been a Hampshire County cornerstone for nearly 30 years.

As their flyers say, “We’ll scare the yell outta ya.” They definitely did, and you should let them do the same to you.

I’ll just be over here.

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