Posted by m1s1n (153.90.114.188) on November 04, 2004 at 22:27:13:
Alright, a couple people have asked about my part in Montana State University's "Spook House," so here it is in writing.
Sometime in early October. Place: The Demented Mind of a Film Major.
It seemed to me that something needed to be done. Halloween was quickly rushing in on us, and nothing had been done. No suggestions made. It looked as though nothing would be done--but an idea was forming. The burgeoning of thought brought forth from the inner-hells of my mind. There was some talk, but nothing else. It seemed that the idea would die as a conversation.
Saturday, October 30th. Morning. Place: The Cafeteria.
There is one day left until Halloween. Time is dripping away. It is suggested that something be done for "Spook House"--a room inside a haunted basement decorated and toured each Halloween. There is talk, somehow--someone suggests my idea. Somehow, I am placed in charge.
I go to investigate the scene. The scene is an old dark room--a series of halls designed with photography in mind. The dark room is in the basement of an all female dorm, and has since been abandoned for better locale. My room is an old utility closet. It is perfect. The walls are a constructed of cold beige concrete blocks. Imagine cinder blocks with grubby-grandma colors. The room has a window that shows into a hallway. Pipes are everywhere. The type of industrial pipes only seen in real basements. Insulation hangs from the ceiling in various places, the pinkish-orange color has long since faded to sickly-yellow. Pipes cross the ceiling, the walls--some even dig into the ground. Accompanying the pipes is an air-heater duct. This too has been abandoned for a newer furnace system, but imagine the Hollywood-style airt duct, the kind that you can use to hide from terrorists. The floor looks cold. This is the perfect spot for my imagination to work.
That afternoon.
A list was constructed. This list contained the essential pieces to the puzzle. Spray paint. Glue. A semi-opaque tarp. Lots of fake blood. Even more wire. Two strobe lights, blue. Adhesive command hooks. Duct tape, silver.
Construction begins.
The joy of location allowed for the excessive placement of wires across the room. The criss-crossing of 17-gauge galivinized steel would be the main process of visualization--creating a confusing sequence of angles and mazes to entrap the observer. Wires were everywhere. Instantly the room became smaller, more confined and bound. Work became more crowded.
Next the process of barbs and blood. Silver duct tape cut in the right way creates an excellent barbs. Remember this for future projects. Also remember that fake blood needs a blue tint. Just adding red dye to corn syrup is not acceptable. The fake blood you can buy in stores stains everything, and looks awful when dried. However, corn syrup cleans easily--assuming you have tolerance for a sticky mess. Blood was used to splatter the walls. Jibberesh and messages of "Help" were scribbled in the viceral material. The wires were then coated, some of the drips congealed in a lovely form.
Next a noise maker was created out of string, wire, and a 2x4 piece of wood. It was balanced against the air duct and hidden behind the now suspended piece of semi-opaque tarp. By pulling down upon the string the board would pivot and slam against the air duct, creating a foreboding echo within the room. The tarp was positioned in a corner of the room with enough space to hide one person, and a bucket of fake blood.
During this time a series of torn cloth was cured inside a concoction of glue and water. The treated cloth was left to dry overnight. In the morning it would be stiff and textured, but more on that later.
End of Saturday, October 30th.
Halloween Day. Place: The Spook House, early morning. It has snowed during the night, but only small crisp patches of frost remain.
Very little is left to be completed on the room. More wires are added to create an increasingly claustrophobic effect. More blood is added.
The aforementioned pieces of cured-cloth are now spray painted a soft peach color, followed by a light mist of brown paint. The result is pieces of tattered flesh, but there is still more work before they will be sparsley strewn about the room. A bucket is acquired, nothing special about the bucket, but it lacked handles. More fake blood was added to this bucket. In a wanton fashion I dipped and sloshed the now dubbed "flesh cloth" into the fake blood, and while they were still fresh others hanged them from the wires. The scene was remarkably disturbing. Blood dripped from the torn detritus and pooled on the floor. The room was cleaned of garbage. Two strobe lights were affixed in opposition, sequenced to fire simultaneously. All other preperation would take place later that evening.
Halloween Night. Place: The Spook House. In one hours time guests will be swarming the haunted basement by the hundreds. Admission is a measly fifty-cents. A price that a child could afford. But what price glory?
We were the first to arrive. Four members of my floor agreed to be subjects in my room of terror.
One would hide behind the tarp, occasionally slapping the inside of the tarp with fresh fake blood, but mainly operating our noise maker. He came in plain street clothes, nothing to write home about.
Another came in tattered jeans with no shirt. Oddly he chose to wear socks. His upper body, arms, face, and pants were covered in fake blood. He was placed in a corner, facing the doorway. Wires wrapped his arms, ascended towards the ceiling, and around a pipe. The illusion being that he was suspended by the wires. His job was simply to hang there and look pitiful.
Another simply wore ripped clothes, additionally he wore socks. His body was tangled within wire--as though he had been running through the barbed mess. He lay face-down in the center of the room, and was drowned in a pool of fake blood. By the end of the night the syrup will have plastered him to the floor. His position in this diorama of death is to moan in pain, and act half dead--occasionally lifting his arm towards a passerby. Within the first hour his body would make a ripping sound as he lifted his arm from the sugary-blood solution. The syrup also served to glue part of his shirt to his body, giving the appearance that flesh was hanging from his body--an unforeseen benefit.
Finally we get to my role. I came dressed in a white t-shirt and a pair of boxers. I wore no socks. I was fixed with wires in a sitting positing to a pipe. The general location within the room was between the doorway and the tarp. Most of my body was afixed in a manor that my face was hidden by shadow, but my feet and arms protruded into the blue-glow light of the strobe. My legs were further bound with wire, and a pool of blood was poured across my ankles. Out of everyone in the room, I was the only one securly held in place by wires. Blood dripped from my wrists, down my arms, and into my face. Corn syrup burns an awful lot when it gets in your eyes. Make note of this for future projects. Coincidentally, my nose started itching within five-minutes of my incapacitation.
Since I was mostly hidden from view, my job became the most important. I was the talker. Whenever a group would walk by, the noisemaker would start banging. This would be my cue.
"Hello?"
"Hello? Are you out there?"
"Is--is there someone out there?"
"I--I think I can hear you--please, please you've got to help us. Please. Please help us!"
"WON'T SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP US!"
"PLEASE! Please! Oh, please!"
"PLEASE DON'T LEAVE US IN HERE!"
"Please, please, we need your help. We're still alive in here."
"WE'RE STILL ALIVE IN HERE!"
"It's--it's so cold. It's so cold in here. Please help us."
"YOU CAN'T LEAVE US IN HERE!"
When my voice went hoarse from screaming the effect became that much better. I yelled for a near three-hours straight. And it worked like magic.
By the end of the night everyone hurt. My ankles were sore from wires cutting into them. Body hair had been claimed by the corn syrup. Muscles were sore from holding them in position. I could barely speak. But I tell you this now--it was well worth it. Every single minute. People were being turned away at the door, and a line was still growing. That night Spook House made over three-hundred dollars for charity. Over six-hundred people witnessed my room of wires. Six-hundred people heard my plea. Each visitor cast a vote as to which room was scariest. Almost sixty-percent of the vote went to my room alone. Now that I can speak again, I thank everyone involved. Everyone that inspired me to think, to challenge myself, and to be creative. Everyone who had the courage to tell me when I had a bad idea, but would embrace my novel thoughts. I thank everyone who sacrificed their time and comfort for my vision. Now if only someone would help me to wash the red-stained corn syrup from my boxers, that would be great.