At the Forest of Fear, we waited in The Slaughterhouse line, jumping to warm ourselves when we weren’t shuffling ahead, lights from spooky carnival games blinking in the distance, zombies roaming the queue, a particularly tall one slurping in my ear, friends laughing at my wide-eyed expression, cups of warm cider steaming into the cold New York night. Finally, The Slaughterhouse, the amazingly scary corridors and well-timed actors, the crib blocking our way and the twisting bridge that made us dizzy. Finally to run out the exit, to see my breath, to look up at the wide expanse of stars.