You paid money to be scared. I saw the tickets. Little glowing squares on your phone, and then a fence, and then a man in a mask who told us the rules like it was serious.
We used to make our own. Remember? A blanket over the couch, a flashlight under my chin, my own voice going ooOOoo in the dark closet until I scared myself so bad I ran out laughing. It was free. It was ours.
Now they build the dark for you. Someone painted the walls to look old. Someone hid the man who jumps out. When he jumped out, you screamed, and then you laughed the big real laugh, the one I know, the one you save for when you forget to hold it in. I heard it. It's still in there.
You grabbed the arm of the person next to you. You held on tight. I used to think holding on tight meant you were little. Now I think maybe it just means you liked them.
You weren't really scared. I could tell. Grown-ups know the man in the mask is just a man. You know the skeleton is plastic. You know the blood is paint.
But you went in anyway. You paid to pretend the monsters are real, just for a minute, just to feel your heart do the thing.
I thought you stopped believing in monsters.
I'm glad you still want to.