The Hell House opened at 3:00 p.m. on Halloween day—a little early, Ruthie and I thought, to have the potential sin scared out of you. It felt more appropriate, and scary, after the sun went down, so we happily waited until seven thirty to join the line of students, which, by that point, wrapped around the whole of the McMahon science building where the events were held. Weeks were spent turning the building into this spooky show, affected classes were moved or canceled, and more security guarded the entrance than any other part of campus.

While we waited, I thought about the fliers I saw as a kid. I was excited to experience something my parents didn’t approve of yet was endorsed by the university. I guess it’s more about the way you interpret the rules, rather than the rules themselves.

“I don’t know why I’m nervous,” Ruthie said, laughing and jumping in place like an athlete prerace. “This is going to be so fun.”

I wasn’t sure fun was how I’d describe it, but I could be wrong.

When we finally reached the steps of the building, the main security guard, a burly man with a boyish face like Matt Damon’s when he was on People’s Sexiest Man Alive cover, gave us the same “one second” finger my mother used when we were asking her questions while she measured flour or sugar for baking.

“Go ahead,” he finally said, pulling the heavy wooden door open and motioning for us to walk inside.

Once the door closed behind us, it was dark. Not just lights-off-at-night dark, but the kind of dark where you can feel your pupils expanding, desperately grasping for any hint of light they can find just to spatially orient your brain, to make your feet know there’s a floor and your arms know there are walls.

We followed the pack of students in front of us, inching around the perimeter of the room, waiting for instruction on what we were supposed to be doing, seeing.