Feelings of butterflies in my stomach.
Can't sitstill, too nervous.
My third trip to the fort.
It's becoming a Halloweentradition.
Don't want to be too scared,
just scared enough.
We pullup to the fort.
The stones and pebbles crunching,
clinking under ourcar.
I step outside.
Cold, frigid air takes my breath away.
The smell ofa campfire lingers in the air.
"What number arewe?"
"18," whispers my brother in a
playfully scaryvoice.
Shouts of "Group 16!" can be heard.
We walk over to thelarge fire, and I
buy a cup of hot apple cider.
I take a small sip so asnot to burn
my tongue.
My hands are warmed through the styrofoamcup.
"Group 18!"
My stomach tightens fearing theunknown.
We cross a grass field,
the bottom of my pants getting wetfrom dew.
Up to the large stone castle-like entrance.
Pitch dark.
Theguide leads us through the mammoth
wooden doorway.
With a brief gust ofwind, the door slams shut.
Darkness, screaming, grabbing for a familiarhand.
Painted white faces appear.
More screaming.
Water sprayed onto myunsuspecting neck.
A mysterious figure in a red soldier's uniform
creepsaround.
Shrieking.
The door in front of us opens
letting a faintlight stream across our
pink-cheeked faces.
We cautiously step through
checking for "ghosts" behind doors or under tables.
There'slaughing about the screams and cowardice
among our group.
My heart races.
Bring on the next room.
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