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Dare to Enter "Haus of Creep," the Strangest, Queerest Halloween Haunt

Created by a gay couple, the Los Angeles attraction proves to be deeply perverse fun, complete with BDSM, genderplay, and sinister voyeurism.

As a trans person, it’s always nice to see another gender-variant attendee at an event. That’s why I'm a little relieved when a gender nonconforming guest joins our group as we wait to enter Haus of Creep in downtown Los Angeles.

“I’m Sookie,” they say warmly, a pleasant British accent brightening the introduction. “I just arrived from London!”

The person to my left (I’ll call him Ted), introduces himself. He has also come alone, and is really excited to get into Haus of Creep, which bills itself as immersive theatre, a kind of cross between a haunted house and a play; there are “creeps”—actors in dramatic custom—who wander the grounds, as well as actors disguised as attendees. It’s a very L.A. way to do Halloween.

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Sookie, it turns out, has a friend in the show. Cool, I think. Maybe this is the way to get some inside intel for my review on this gay-owned and run Halloween attraction. It’s not a moment before Sookie’s friend turns up wearing an old-timey feather hat. “She’s also a reporter!” Sookie says of their friend. “For the Chicago Tribune!”

Over the next few moments Sookie discusses the feather lady’s impressive reporting history, growing more and more excited until she verges on totally weird. Then, I stop listening, and realize Sookie’s one of actors. I’ve just been had.

I look at Ted a little sideways. Is he also part of this? It's hard to tell. Everyone here is a little strange, myself included. That’s the point.

What is scary about Haus of Creep is that it delights so deeply in things the world shuns: BDSM, queerness, genderplay, sex work, and voyeurism. In the 75-minute show that takes place across a sprawling maze of rooms, visitors switch from being voyeurs to pervs, sometimes simply observing something perverse, other times being asked by the cast to talk and touch. It’s deeply uncomfortable, very queer, and vastly different from the hay rides and theme parks that spring up in late September each year. Nothing jumps out at you at Haus of Creep, unless you count the vintage-style string puppet who pops a boner.

This is the work of husbands Justin Fix and J.T. Swierczek, who started Haus of Creep as a pop-up back in 2015.

“I think what we've been trying to do is redefine the typical night out in L.A.,” Fix tells NewNowNext. “It's all about putting people in other people's shoes or having people come face-to-face with things that they normally would never test, like BDSM, drag, and the queer performances.”

Fix says his midwestern upbringing inspired the project. A Wisconsin native, he was raised in the land of corn mazes and scream houses that fill roadside barns each fall.

“Halloween is my favorite holiday,” he says.

Fix grew up doing professional and community theatre. His credits span Cats, The Full Monty, Hairspray, and A Chorus Line. But when his father died of cancer at age 60 with an unfinished bucket list, Fix re-evaluated his own life. In 2015, he and Swierczek enlisted a group of friends in creating the first Haus of Creep.

“Thank God for my husband because he hated all things scary,” Fix tells NewNowNext. “But he's stayed in it and five years later, with my creative spirit and his business mind, we’re kind of that yin and yang.”

The house has been a sell-out hit every year since, ushering in crowds up to 50 people a show for $69 a pop.

This year’s space is designed to mimic an art gallery. And though it's advertised as an Instagram palace, visitors are not allowed to actually take photos, a mockery of L.A.’s selfie culture plunged into darkness.

Hatbox Photography

By entering, you consent to being touched—and things get awkward right at the door. The actors are split between “creeps” dressed in your classic ghoulish Halloween attire and cast members, regularly dressed but still uncomfortable to be around. One cast member asks if I’ve seen the show before starting at me point blank for five silent seconds like he wants to eat my brains. He then blushes out an apology.

Fix, who doubles as a cast member, quietly snipes at one of the creeps that he isn’t moving guests in quickly enough. He's so convincing that one thinks the bickering isn't actually part of the show, but an altercation.

At the gallery entrance, an old woman welcome guests. She has been relegated to the desk for years, but don’t worry she’s not bitter about it. You walk on your own through the multi-room house, which is dark, but still navigable. The crowd is big enough that you are rarely alone, and it only takes a few minutes to realize that no one is going to jump out and grab you. Creep is not about cheap thrills.

In the front lounge, a pole dancer shimmies in the dark. She stares at me, and I try to look away. In the adjacent corridor, a wall of arms seductively rubs the heads of visitors. A creep slinks through the darkness in full-on fetishwear, dragging an ambitious attendee by a leash. Several cast members don drag.

The whole house shifts and changes over three loose acts, although it’s very much a choose-your-perversion kind of experience. In the heart of the house, I find a psychic who is ranting at guests. She aptly tells me I play the caregiver to those in my life to my own detriment before frantically turning her attention to someone else. A demented clown makes penis balloon animals, only to pop them in the face of guests before handing them off. The old woman at the gallery entrance makes a break for the lounge stage, strips off her wig and tries to sing a number for me.

A creep takes me by the hand and leads me away from the group and into a dark living room to read my fortune via a handful of playing cards.

She gently strokes my head and pushes her mouth against my ear.

“Do you have a home?” she whispers. “Is there a warm bed to return to and a roof over your head?”

The skin on my arms pricks up. I feel both loved and attacked. She spends a solid 10 minutes with me, but it seems much longer. I leave feeling like I’ve just paid someone for an intimate experience and immediately bump into the pole dancer who looks deeply into my eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she tells me.

I run away.

Hatbox Photography

For those who have hit the haunted houses already and don’t want to carve another Jack Skellington, this year, look no further than downtown L.A. Just be prepared: In this scarefest, it’s not the things that go bump that will spook, it’s the creep that’s buried within you.

Tickets are almost sold-out for this year. Grab yours here.

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