handfuls of air

A gale of laughter pulls me from my reverie

as I push through the crowd queuing

for the merry-go-round making its last circuit

around as the sun strikes the horizon.

On the hill, the house stands apart,

isolated atop a daunting ascent,

surrounded by false leafless trees,

but I trudge up the steepening incline,

past a few panting parkgoers who turn around.

I shield my eyes from the setting sun,

which dyes the world an uncanny orange

portending storms, but I climb on,

fingertips grasping crooked edges

of loose cobblestones. I pull myself over

the edge where the manor looms

like the amalgam of all people's dreams

of a haunted house spliced together.

It stands tall and dark and leaning

toward me, its window sockets black,

its walls covered with ivy like the arms

of some ghastly creature patiently trapping

its prey over centuries, creeping

up the turrets and towers

that stretch into the reddening sky.

I navigate the empty queue, running

my hands along the red-roped barrier

as thunder rumbles: a recorded sound effect

emanating from speakers hidden

amongst plastic gravestones,

or is it real?

The black doorway swallows me

into a dark lobby where a procession

of leather buggies snakes through the room.

I pick one, fall in, and a steel bar lowers,

pinning me into position.

The buggy passes through an archway

and makes a sharp sudden drop

down a black tunnel, and a finger of bile

rises up my esophagus as I grip the cold bar

holding me helpless in this ride,

which chooses what I see, where I go,

and what I must endure.

Every dizzying turn, every door, a new danger.

Time dissolves; there's no way of knowing

how deep this ride goes for me.

The finite facade of the house: an illusion.

I made a mistake! Trapped, trapped,

going down, tilting, spinning

until direction is meaningless.

I enter rooms at first empty and innocent

before mechanical ghouls leap out at me

from unexpected angles.

I am losing strength, perspective, energy

to fight the panicked thoughts

screaming that this ride won't end,

never, as taunting organ music pulses,

pushing me onward as this house

digests me.