Hanging Around the Haunted House

Halloween is coming up in a few days. Obviously it’s been a few years since I last went out trick or treating, and I'll spare you the suspense and let you know I won't be going out this year either.  But I haven't forgotten the fun of dressing up on Halloween night and going out with the gang- and my sister- in hopes of commandeering a ginormous haul of bad-for-you-stuff from all the neighbors. But I think the most memorable Halloween experience for me was the year I worked as a volunteer 'haunter' in the KROY Haunted Mansion.

1240 KROY was the radio station we all listened to in Sacramento as kids, and in the days leading up to Halloween the KROY Haunted Mansion was the place to be and be seen. Every October the station went out and found an old abandoned house, creep it up and then throw open its doors to the public during the week of Halloween. They charged 50 cents a head, and all proceeds went to a co-sponsoring service organization. How I ended up haunting the haunted mansion one year came about because I was one of the fortunate few teen agers who actually knew KROY’s #1 d.j., Chuck Roy, personally.

 

Okay, Chuck was actually Dad’s friend, but sometimes in life it’s not always what you know but who you know and, in this case, I was lucky Dad knew Chuck. But it felt like I was meeting a star that day when Dad introduced us during my senior year in high school. Though I wasn’t yet 18 and Chuck was already a 30-something married professional adult, he and I managed to forge a causal friendship anyway. Whether he was just doing a favor for Dad’s sake, being forced to humor a teen-age mutant radio wanna-be, I don’t know. But he was always nice, never blew me off, really seemed to take an interest in what I was doing and became kind of a mentor. I am not exaggerating when I tell people I wanted to be on the radio because of him. He was one of my early heroes.

 

Chuck spun the hits weekday afternoons from 3-7 and many days after school I'd get in my car and head down to the KROY studios and talk shop with him while he did his show. The on-air studio faced the street and anyone could walk by, look in and watch what the guys “on the radio” were doing while they were on the radio. The station had a mounted two-way squawk box on the window sill and if the jock wasn’t terribly busy, sometimes he might talk to you. Like Chuck did with me- all the time.

The KROY building, on Arden Way, was situated three blocks north of the Wonder Bread plant, putting it tantalizingly downwind from the delicious aromas of baking bread. The radio station also sat on a line where North Sacramento began encroaching into Del Paso Heights, putting it just this side of the seedy part of town. Despite the welcoming smells, you wouldn’t want to go down there after dark. But as an insecure geeky kid, no matter the hour it felt pretty cool to hang out and talk about life and broadcasting with the best d.j. in the Sacramento market, Chuck Roy.

Anyway, it was during one of these lengthy hang out sessions, between records and commercial breaks one hazy October afternoon, when Chuck suggested I help out at that years Haunted Mansion. He knew I was shy, but encouraged me to go anyway. ”You’ll have a lot of fun and meet some new people; maybe even some girls. And you’d be helping the radio station, too. We always need help for this thing.” One of my lifelong goals (at least when I was all of 17) was to someday work at KROY and with or for, Chuck. Shoot, if he told me to go jump in a lake, I’d probably ask which one and go hurl myself in.

But being around and having to hang out with a bunch of people I didn't know, and doing it in front of even more people I didn't know, wasn't exactly in my wheel house. So it took Chuck three tries- two more visits- to get me to sign up. And, to get his approval-and so he’d quit asking- I did (but hoped the paper work would get lost and nobody would ever call. No such luck- probably because of Chuck’s intervention- because the very next day somebody did call from KROY- probably a secretary or promotions person; I didn’t recognize the name or voice anyway- providing me with directions to the Haunted House and instructions to be there at 7 the next evening for orientation and a walk-through. As far as this person was concerned, I was now an official member of ‘the crew’.

 

I said okay, but all day the next day I still tried talking myself out of it. I mean, it’s not like they were going to come drag me down there if I didn’t show up. I was, after all, a volunteer.  If I didn’t want to go, I didn’t have to. But I didn’t want Chuck to find out and be disappointed in me, so I showed up when they told me to and once orientation as over, I didn't have any more time to re-think or retreat because, now part of the ‘crew’, I’d already been given my assignment for opening night, which was now less than 24 hours away. I could hardly wait.

 

The KROY Haunted Mansion that year was in a run-down three story old Victorian, maybe 8 blocks over from the state capitol building. At one time it'd probably been somebody's stately family residence. But by the fall of 1972, it’d been sitting empty and gathering dust for many years, awaiting either a new owner or the demolition crew.  But with co-sponsors, the Sacramento Big Brothers and Youth for Truth, KROY appeared to have spared no expense in spooking the joint up. From street level the house looked a little like Herman Munster's place from TV and inside, every in-use room, nook and cranny, on all three haunted floors, was dripping in creepiness. In their promos on the radio, KROY billed it as the most "Spook-tacular" Haunted House in Northern California. And judging from what I’d seen during orientation, they weren't exaggerating. It was pretty cool.

The sequence of events for the volunteer actors went like this-

Be at the house by 5:30 and, after the first night, find out where you're working. Then go to the make-up room, actually the kitchen area, where one of ten actual make-up artists, made you up. Then you got your costume and went through a quick run through.

 

After that, everybody had the last ten minutes before opening to relax and chill out. The time was used to get something to eat, go to the bathroom or out on the back deck (out of view of the public) either to catch one more breath of fresh air, or, for some, puff on one more cancer stick.

 

At 6:55, everyone made one last bee-line through the make-up room/kitchen to grab a Coke or two and some munchies to keep handy (and out of sight), before taking their places; because after the doors opened at 7, there were no breaks until we closed  at 10.  And after the house was cleared and closed, and make-up and costumes removed, everybody got to help clean up. 

 

That usually didn't put any of us out of there until well past 11. With school and/or jobs, it was a long day, not just for me, but for everybody involved.  But that was our routine and I ended up going through that routine all five nights the Mansion was open.

 

KROY broadcast live from the house each night, too, and I thought Chuck or some of the other d..j.'s might come by, at least on one of the nights. But Chuck was a 5 night no-show and the only station personality I ever saw was Bob Castle, or “The Blue Wiz”, as he called himself on the air for some unknown reason. Bob/Blue Wiz was the    7-midnight guy and did his show from the Mansion each evening- at least till closing (some weekend dude did his last two hours back at the station).

 

But working with, ”The Blue Wiz”, was more like working with “The Blue Horse's Ass". He was snotty and blew everybody off. The man hardly ever looked up from what he was doing, although, doing a live remote from anyplace- especially a loud, dark building like he was doing those five nights- is really hard, really stressful. Having done a few in much less inhospitable environments, I can cut him some slack now. But back then, though our paths crossed every night and were even in the same general area on two of those nights, I can says without fear of contradiction, that during our “collaboration” at The Haunted Mansion in 1972, Bob Castle was a first rate turd.  However I was generally too busy doing whatever I was supposed to be doing to get too worked up over Bob’s turdiness. But I wondered if everybody in radio was that full of themselves and cranky when they weren't "on".

 

On my first night as a ‘haunter’ I was placed in a hidden crawlspace next to the main staircase, given a pair of over-sized black gloves and told to reach out and touch random someones as they went by. The walls were dark and, with very minimal light, nobody could see me or my hands. But I could see them and getting a reaction was simple; especially the chicks-one quick brush or touch and they'd predictably shriek and recoil. It was funny. The more curious or brave of the fairer sex would try and peer into my hiding place. But I was so well concealed, for them it was like staring into a blank wall, even though some were looking me in the eye and never knew it. 

 

When I wasn't groping at girls, though, I got an even a bigger kick out of pawing some unsuspecting supposedly macho guy. When I spooked one of them, they started screaming and flapping about like little school girls about to wet their pants. Tough guy. Though I was working completely by myself that night, I had a ball scaring the daylights out of people.

 

The crew chiefs, as they were called- the adults in charge- rotated everyone around so I only got to do the stairwell once. In fact, nobody worked in the same part of the house twice. On night number two, I was a friendly ghost sitting on a ledge over the exit door and waving as people left. That was boring. But on my third night, I drew a plumb assignment, getting to work in the “torture chamber” room.

 

The torture room included a rack, a bed of nails (all rubber of course), and in one of the corners, on a raised platform with a large hole in its center, a gallows set-up. The basketball stand contraption stood concealed behind a black curtain and featured a harness/winch device that, used correctly, gave the appearance of "hanging" someone.
Four people worked the “torture chamber”; three got to be ‘tortured’ or ‘killed’, while the fourth played a mad scientist roaming the room and hollering at his victims and the guests passing by- and if necessary, inflicting more pain on the tortured. That was the plumb role. But as the smallest and lightest one in our group, I was “volunteered” to be the dead man hanging. It was an easy part to do, though- no acting or lines; just play dead.

 

At five minutes to 7, after the run through and scooping up a couple of Cokes to have during breaks, I went behind the curtain, climbed the platform, dropped my jeans and stepped into the harness. One of my cast mates synched it securely and, after I pulled my pants back up, placed my head through the loosely attached noose and waited for him to crank, lift, and lower me through the opening.

And from floor level, it really looked like I'd been hung. But that's when things got a little dicey. Though the device felt fine when I put it on, once I was lowered through the hole and the harness took control of gravity, my crotch suddenly became the crux of support for all my body weight. The noose, of course, had plenty of play; I wasn’t going to strangle myself. And the harness had been designed to allow the "dead man" some wiggle room, too. But either I wasn't hanging right- no pun intended- or we’d put it on wrong because there was no give inside the harness at all and I was almost immediately in discomfort. 

 

But by then, it was 7:00, the doors were opened and, hanging ten feet off the ground, I was stuck and going no place.   

At first I tried holding perfectly still because I figured no movement would mean no pain. But though I was supposed to be dead, I was still breathing and the harness swung lightly with each breath. So I was always in a constant subtle motion, which did little to soothe my increasingly sore stones. As the scrotum crush continued, all I could do was squeeze  my eyes closed and try to avoid crying out in agony (which, of course, would've really ruin the illusion of not being alive).

 

Trying to block out the pain and not draw attention to myself, it felt like I'd been hanging there an hour. But we were only 10 minutes into the night, had only seen the first wave of spectators and weren’t supposed to have our first tiny breather until 8:00; 50 more minutes. I wanted to die- for real. But a couple minutes later, it got real quiet, signaling our first lull and my first chance to speak up.

 

“Hey, guys, I’m dyin' up here. My balls are breaking! ” They started laughing. "No really. I'm not kidding. I think I'm hung wrong" (again, no pun intended). The mad scientist, the only one not tied to a rack or strapped into a bed of nails, the only one with freedom of movement around the set, walked over, looked up and told me to hang tight (and once more, no freaking pun intended). He examined how the contraption was holding me up, saw I was in pain, but there wasn’t time to figure out a solution. Another group was coming through. Quickly returning to his mark, he promised he’d flag the crew leader as they passed and let him know they needed to get me down. 

 

Thank God; relief was on the way. But before it did, I had to ‘hang around’ another 15 minutes. It was not pleasant; I was really suffering though it and it seemed like the longest quarter hour of my life. Finally, around 7:30, though a coordinated and timed effort, they briefly stopped the line of customers at the front door creating an artificial delay, long enough for the guys in the set to quickly get me down and out of that damn harness.
I'd been hanging there for a little over half hour, and though I'd done my best to hold still and swallow my discomfort, was about to turn green.

 

They told us the delay at the front door would be about three minutes; after being cut down, that’s all the time I had to recover or leave the set. But finally set free, I could hardly walk or breathe, and wanted to throw up. For a second, I thought I was going to. Soon enough, though, everything below the waist began to relax and I felt marginally better--well enough to stick around.  But we had a problem with casting. Nobody wanted to go into the harness.

When the crew chief came through with the one minute warning before the ‘show’ resumed, he saw nobody rushing to take my place in the sling. There wasn’t enough time anyway, and it didn’t seem like a good idea anymore just in general. So he quickly suggested the other two guys remain in their roles and have me just lay down on the mad scientist's table- empty, except for a couple of hand tools he'd occasionally threatened to use on the other two torturees- and be his “patient” the rest of the evening. All I'd have to do was lay there and scream in agony any time he hunched over me with a hacksaw or pickaxe. And considering what I’d just been through, screaming in agony was a part I was pretty sure I could handle.

 

But nobody else was placed in the harness during Haunted Mansion’s the final two nights.

 

The next day KROY along with their Haunted Mansion co-sponsors, and in consultation with their legal experts, insurance carrier, and the set designer, decided it was in everyone’s best interest to lose the hangman’s noose. So it was removed from the “torture chamber” room before the next performance, never to be seen again. I hoped it wasn’t because of me-it probably was- but for the half hour I’d lived in it I had truly been inadvertently tortured. I probably didn’t get into it right or something, but to avoid hurting anyone else, it was pulled from the show.

 

However, by alerting the crew leaders of the problem, and cutting me down when they did, the guys I ‘acted’ with that night probably saved my life. And I didn’t even get their names; at least I can't recall them now, which in hindsight seems a little odd. Oh, thank you, you saved my groin from permanent damage - what'd you say your name was? Still, instead of ripping me over it- which was a real possibility- they closed ranks with me.

 

The episode became kind of a bonding experience and the four of us became pretty tight. We were that night anyway,, laughing and teasing about it during breaks and lulls, through clean up, and sipping Coke and eating snacks together later on in the make-up room. And afterwards, if we'd been old enough, I'm sure we might’ve all gone out for a round of beers. I would've bought, too. It could've been the beginning of a couple cool new friendships. But we all went separate ways to separate homes, and the next night I was told to go haunt the "library" with some new people, and didn’t meet up with any of my torture chamber buddies again. They may have been there; if they were, though, in all the confusion, I never ran into them. Too bad, too; I really would’ve liked to thank them.

 

Yet despite almost getting the life squeezed out of my nuts, the Haunted Mansion was still a pretty good time and I recommend everybody work in one at least once. (Although that was the only time for me; when I was asked the next year, I don’t recall why but I declined). However, when you do volunteer, and get roped into being the hanging dead man, and they're using a suspect-looking homemade device to do the hanging, tell them to go find a wax dummy or cadaver to play the role instead.

Trust me on this one. You- and your nether regions- will thank me later.