Domestic Violence: A House Of Horror

October has ended, but I’m still afraid.

The night before Halloween, I drove my younger son and 4 of his friends to a haunted house on Chicago’s Navy Pier. As the fly-on-the-wall driver, I listened as the boys’ worries grew louder, especially as the ferris wheel came into view on Lake Shore Drive.

“I’m getting really scared, you guys,” one boy confessed.

“Me, too,” another one said. “Do they have exit doors? Like in case we want to leave?”

“If you get really scared,” I said, “there’s something you can do.”

The boys fell silent.

“If someone jumps out or something scares you too much, just shout at the top of your lungs, ‘You’re NOT REAL! You’re NOT REAL!’ They’re all actors, and their job is to scare you. It’s all just an act.”

“Yeah,” the youngest boy said softly, “and you know what else we can do?”

The boys turned to their friend.

“We can form a conga line. Everyone’s happy in a conga line, right?”

We parked the car and walked through the cold, rainy fog toward the end of the pier. Actors dressed as zombies distracted our attention from the long, winding line in front of us and, before long, we stood at the threshold of the house of horrors. Without a word, we formed our conga line and stepped inside to face our fears.

For twenty dark, confusing, terrifying minutes, we wound our way through the maze of terror and intimidation. We’d scream as arms touched our sleeves and jump when hammers slammed the floor below our feet. Clowns appeared unexpectedly, haunting and taunting us. Flashlights blasted our squinting eyes.

As we shuffled through alarming scenes of torture and brutality, I wondered how many nightmares might occur that night. “You’re NOT REAL!” I shouted, trying to sound confident, and the boys quickly followed suit. “You’re NOT REAL!” “You’re NOT REAL!”

A woman dressed as a bloody baby doll walked right up to each of us and shrieked mockingly: “YOU’RE not real. YOU’RE not real.”

“Keep going, boys!” I yelled. “They’re just actors.”

Never before had a haunted house felt so personal.

We squeezed through impossibly narrow halls, eyes darting through the darkness for unforeseen hands as our wet shoes scuffled along the creaky wood floors. Our compact conga line tugged and bumped along, at times scurrying from unseen voices or halting in the face of impenetrable spectacles. Some of the boys screamed louder than me, while at least one never made a sound the entire way.

At one point along our journey, we found ourselves standing outside in the pouring rain. Relieved yet confused, I exclaimed, “Oh thank God, we made it!” Quickly, however, I realized our only way to the finish was to head back inside. Drained, we grabbed shoulders and stumbled back into the darkness.

By then, my head was pounding from all the screaming and the boy behind me pulled the edges of my hood like a pair of horse reins. Still, we kept on going. We saw no other way out.

I extended my arms, knowing I was the only one between these boys and the affronts awaiting us. I’d gotten us into this mess. I’d dragged these kids in here. It was now my job to get them out. They clung to each other as I pulled onward. I hated hearing the screams from others elsewhere in the house, and I just wanted this odyssey over.

When we finally reached the exit we were speechless. Was this another trick? Let’s not get too excited…there might be more coming, right?

We walked slowly down a flight of stairs, rain pelting our conga line. A Navy Pier security guard watched us wander for a moment, then, having seen so many like us before, said without a hint of emotion, “Just keep on walking. The parking lot will be to your left.”

I froze for a moment. Did he have any idea what we’d just gone through? Had he walked that same path himself? Clearly not. Otherwise, he would have said something…anything.

“You made it.”

“Congratulations.”

“How’d you get through it?”

“What a journey!”

 “You kept on going.”

“You didn’t give up.”

“That wasn’t easy.”

“Not everyone gets through.”

As we walked to the parking garage, the boys high-fived and excitedly discussed each and every terrifying moment.

I, on the other hand, could not stop thinking about a woman I know who’s been the victim of domestic abuse. Her husband has threatened her. Taunted her. Scared her. She’s been living in the dark for years, the silent one, afraid to scream for help out of fear of making things worse. She’s struggled to find an exit. Felt guilty for bringing children into the mix. She’s been blinded by her spouse’s irrational conduct and paralyzed by thoughts she’d never escape. She’s been in a fog for so long, convinced it’s her sole responsibility to change so as not to upset him. The horrors she’s experienced are known to almost no one since he’s orchestrated a charming, engaging persona outside the walls of their haunted house.

Now that October is over, so is National Domestic Violence Awareness month. The haunted house on Navy Pier has closed. I was lucky to dance my way out, but there are others still trapped in their own houses of horror. There are still too many of us who don’t recognize the signs of domestic violence or how to help someone caught in the cycle. Domestic violence exists. It's still very real, and it's still shockingly difficult for a woman to get out of a terrifying cycle of abuse.

And so, though October has ended, I am still afraid.