As I entered the Field of Screams, I clung to my better half’s arm. Naturally, she had expected me to protect her from the horrors ahead, but I had devised a different strategy long before we set foot on the premises — walk behind her, close my eyes and pretend I walked along a beach in Rio. A bleak, muddy, evil clown-ridden beach.

As a child, haunted houses frightened me to an unbearable degree. Nevertheless, my parents always strived to drag me to as many as they could possibly find.

“They’re just actors,” my dad said once. “Look at how fake that blood is.”

Thanks for the heads up, Dad. Of course, I knew they were just paid performers — it didn’t make it any less nerve-racking.

If anything, it furthered the anxiety and dread which filled me before I stepped into any of these tormenting “attractions.”

I had not entered a haunted house in years and refused to ever come close to one again. Therefore, when my friends asked me to accompany them into the Field of Screams, I refused several times and in different ways. Even when my girlfriend wanted me to go, I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) say yes.

It seemed as if nobody understood the depth to which I despised these places. I found scarce enjoyment in them. If anything, they triggered sorrow and vexation within me.

Therefore, when I found myself waiting in line for three hours in order to get into what people deem one of Wichita’s treasures, I relived the unease that plagued me throughout all those years.

And for all the cheesy masks, subpar makeup on the actors and a rather unclear backstory, Field of Screams delivers chills with success.

I feigned resentment against those who dragged me there, because I’m too proud to admit I enjoyed it.