05/27/2026
The House That Started in a Box
When I was eight years old, I found my calling inside an old refrigerator box.
We dragged that thing to the edge of the driveway, cut a door in the side, and I spent three weeks turning cardboard into catacombs. Cobwebs made from stretched cotton. A flickering flashlight behind a sheet. A plastic skeleton I bought with allowance money. On Halloween, trick-or-treaters would come to the door for candy, and I’d point them to the box: “Go on. Look inside.”
Their faces when they saw that spooky scene? That was it. That was the hook. I was eight, and I was already addicted to the gasp.
Graveyard Years
As years went by, the box wasn’t enough. The whole front yard became my canvas. I dug up the grass for a graveyard walk-through. Made bloody papier-mâché heads that stared at you from the flower beds. I’d run fishing line through the bushes so branches would grab at ankles. Every October, kids would take the long way to the door, past my ghouls and tombstones, only to meet me at the end — face painted, voice low, handing out candy with a cackle.
It wasn’t just decoration. It was theater. And I was the director, set designer, and lead monster.
From Driveway to Carports
By my early 20s, my haunt had outgrown my parents’ lawn. So I started knocking on doors — not for candy this time. I asked friends and neighbors: “Want a haunted house in your carport? Your doorway?”
They said yes. Gladly. They’d hand me extension cords and black sheets and watch me turn their garages into crypts. One house became three. Three became a whole block. My expertise in spooky atmospheres spread like wildfire. Turns out people don’t just want to see a haunt — they want to be part of one.
Born With the Creep
Some people are born with perfect pitch. I think I was born with the creep. That niche for shadow and tension, for timing a jump scare just right. Now it’s bars and restaurants. Stages. Doorways. Entire homes transformed for one night of beautiful, orchestrated fear.
But the part I love just as much? Teaching it. I show people how to build a home haunt safely — no overloaded outlets, no fire hazards, just smart scares. I love watching someone’s eyes light up when they realize they can do it too. When they find their inner creep.
For the Love of the Haunt
These days I’m promoting every builder I can find. Local haunters, fans, first-timers with a fog machine and a dream. We’ve got a badge of honor now — a sticker. Slap it on your toolbox or your hearse. It says you’re a fan. You’re part of keeping the dying art of haunted houses alive.
Because it is an art. It’s sawdust and latex and late nights. It’s community. It’s the kid who peeks in a refrigerator box and leaves with a story.
I started in that box at eight years old. Never really left. Just made the box bigger.
Let me know if this sticker calls to you? If it’s something that you believe in and can support? And I will reach back out to you. And make sure that you can get one. I have a dream and I have the passion, haunted houses for life.
Hawk Holmes
Nightmares Revealed
