Zombies claw at me on the hood of an old, beat-up Ford truck. They devour my flesh as I writhe around, sticky blood all over me. I take a deep breath and push out my diaphragm, so I can let out the most glass-shattering scream I can muster.
You can’t tell, but I’m smiling. This is my favorite part.
Six months prior is approximately when I start focusing on what it takes to be a local scream queen onstage at Halloween time playing Barbara on stage in the cult classic Night of the Living Dead every year.
You’d be surprised how much stamina it takes to scream, run around, shoot guns, fight zombies and do stunts on a regular basis. It’s a lot, it takes a huge toll on my body. I often start doing intensive physical training like kickboxing or HIIT workouts just to get myself in fighting shape for the show in time. I stop eating sugar and all the fun things and ramp up the workouts to twice a day. I approach it like being an athlete.
After working in horror, you learn some things over the years about the human body that are fascinating.
I had an interesting observation this year that always eluded me until last week when I was finally able to pinpoint it: I get quite a bit more antsy, anxious and uncomfortable than is natural for me during rehearsals and for all of October.
It dawned on me, it’s not normal for human beings to simulate the fight-or-flight reaction of terror for long periods of time. It’s not an everyday thing for a person to be screaming at the top of their lungs … ever, really. And certainly not for extended periods of time. Your body thinks you are in danger. There is stress of feeling like prey and overuse of the throat. As a result, my nervous system becomes dysregulated. It takes a good while after the run of the show to come back to normal. In addition there is a harsh deepening of my voice — even with using proper technique — as well as feeling sick and having messed-up sinuses.
Bruises are so commonplace in the cast it’s laughable. It’s almost like watching clouds, and seeing what shapes you can make out of the purple, blue and green masses. Morbid child’s play. Where’d they come from? We never know. Too many different kinds of stunt scuffles. We don’t complain about our physical injuries or issues, we all have them. You gotta be tough to be a horror actor, babies won’t be suffered here. Any time a newbie complains about something physical, we all silently roll our eyes, thinking, “That’s nothing, kid.”
It sounds grim, but we do it because we love it. It’s such a high, and thrilling beyond what you could imagine. The ultimate in pretending and getting to play with all your good friends. And the fans who come back year after year, who then bring their friends, are so loyal, it’s awesome. Seeing people appreciate all your hard work and all the fun you’re having is the shiny, red cherry on top. It makes it all worth it.
We come back year after year because it’s home. The smell of the fog machines. The chattering and joking around with each other in the dressing rooms. The smell of the latex that zombies use to create looks and cover their tattoos smells fish-like, and gets stronger the older the latex gets. Whenever someone enters the dressing room they say, “Ew, fish!” Or, “Fishsticks?!”
And the stage blood we use. The tacky feel of it drying on your skin, in your eyes and on your clothes. Did you know that stage blood is minty? It’s made to be safe to use in your mouth and to not taste entirely unpleasant, though it can cause gastrointestinal distress if too much is ingested. I’ve learned the hard way. It’s also funny when you forget to remove the blood, or somehow don’t get it all off, when you go to the grocery store after the show is over. The shocked looks on people’s faces are priceless.
We bring each other treats and snacks and goodies for the dressing rooms to keep each other going and show each other we care. In addition to just naturally helping each other out. Zipping unreachable dress zippers, doling out our clean laundry — that has to be washed every night because of all the stage blood and funk — wiping each other down to get errant blood spatter off so we can start the second show of the night all over again. Doing each other’s makeup. Putting in zombie eye contacts. Re-doing makeup and setting props in their right places. We roll with the punches and fix the unexpected smoothly, with the audience none the wiser, while we try not to shit our pants over it backstage.
We are a living, breathing unit that works like machinery. And I adore them all. Consider this my love letter. I’m having unexpected watery eyes writing this. We’ve been through so much together over the years and I’d do it all over again.
No matter how many times I’ve done the show and how many times I’ve said the same words and executed the same movements, it’s always an absolute rush, making that first entrance.
It’s a trope, but it really is like a wave crashing and being plunged underwater. I run onstage and it’s a burst of light, and for just a moment, everything is quiet and all you hear is your heart beating and time stopping and it all goes blank for a moment as it washes over you. Then reality snaps in and time starts again — and even speeds up — and you’re off and running, ready to give the audience a good damn time.
