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I've never given much thought to seasonal haunted farms, although it's something I would have loved as a kid. Back then, "horror" consisted of scary movies such as The Fly and The Blob. Because the special effects were primitive, we never saw the entire monster. What we saw was a woman, up close and screaming while a furry tentacle terrorized her.

Thus when I volunteered to accompany a church youth group to Connors Haunted Farm on a Friday night, I didn't intend to participate. I envisioned eating cider donuts while the young people tramped through the cornfields. In fact, I told the Rev. Stephen, the group's leader, that I'd recently had spinal surgery. No way could I engage in Zombie Paintball: diving into bushes and crawling through mud while being pelted from all sides.

Likewise the Hysteria Haunted Farm was out of the question. The last scary movie I saw was The Exorcist. It took me forever to get over it. I'll admit I've become a sissy. Goosebumps is now my speed.

It's too bad I didn't research Connors Farm's website beforehand. I would have discovered the Haunted Farm is "not for the faint of heart," and that participants would tramp through an "authentic 17th century burial ground." Had I read the back of the ticket, I'd learn that claustrophobics (and pregnant women) were warned not to enter.

Yet tickets had been purchased in advance, and they were not cheap. And after all, I had agreed to chaperone, along with Peter, the church sexton, and Joe, father of the teenage Sophia. I would look like a poor sport if I didn't participate.

The farm's haunted attractions are popular. We waited in a long line, our toes and fingers frozen by the chill autumn air. Those who'd paid extra stood in a VIP line and were whisked aboard. We church people persevered: The meek shall inherit the earth, or failing that, a seat on the Zombie Paintball truck.

Once seated, I relaxed when I learned I would be shooting at the zombies and not vice versa. It was fun pelting them as they popped up in the dark woods. I discovered I have good aim. The attraction was more fun than scary. I'd been worrying for nothing. How frightening could the Haunted Farm be?

Plenty!

After waiting in line, our group stepped inside the entrance to Hysteria's Haunted Farm. Immediately we were plunged into a nightmare involving sound, strobe lights and a kaleidoscope effect. Crossing a rickety wooden bridge, I clutched the rope railing, fearing I'd fall overboard any minute. I couldn't trust my distorted senses enough to proceed. I held onto the sleeve of teenage Demetri's sweatshirt. "Don't leave me!" I yelled above the roaring noise.

Somehow we made it over the bridge, only to be confronted by a bafflingly bizarre room. It was composed entirely of black-and-white checks. Inside was a Spiderman character, wearing a black-and-white checkered body suit. Flashing strobe lights made him appear to be everywhere: above and below us. "He's in my head!" someone yelled.

What a relief to finally see Peter waiting at the exit. I stepped into the night air, exhaled and said, "Thank God that's over."

Immediately a freakish clown appeared at my side. "It's only just begun," he cackled, sounding like Vincent Price in The Fly. Unbeknownst to me, he was right. The Haunted Farm was a 40-minute attraction. More horror awaited, including a dank, smelly, cobwebby cellar, where grotesque creatures materialized from the mist.

"Why are they picking on me?" I wailed at one point.

"Because you're old," one of the kids said. "They know you'll scream."

And scream I did, so much that I was hoarse the following day. Yet in spite of my ordeal, I felt proud to have survived Hysteria's Haunted Farm. In fact, I encourage other seniors to make the pilgrimage to Danvers. I guarantee it will sharpen - and shake up - your senses. Failing that, there's always the cider donuts.

- Sharon L. Cook

Sharon L. Cook is author of A Nose for Hanky Panky A Deadly Christmas Carol and the upcoming Laugh 'til You Die. She writes a humor column for the Salem News. In 2007, she received an honorable mention in the global human interest category of the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition.