It all started in my house. My own home. The place you're supposed to feel safe. I'm not an adult. I'm not strong. I'm not insane, I swear to God. I'm just a freshman. I hate to tell this story, not because it “could happen to you” (which it can) nor because it “happened to me”. I hate telling this story because of the sheer awfulness of using the once innocent key elements of this encounter that everyone loves and turning it into something horrifying and hair-raising. I hate the sense of dread I get whenever I hear the words. “Amusement park” “Fun House” “Cookies”