When I was a child, my mom took me to a haunted house, and I screamed at the top of my lungs the entire time. I often think about the poor 23-year-old working there—probably had a theater degree from DePaul, probably had dreams of being a serious actor, dressed as Uncle Fester from the Addams Family—trying to sincerely reassure an inconsolable child that he wasn’t going to murder me.
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