Lights out, scare factory

I get out of the car to look for the missing keys. The beach is cold under my groping hands. I shiver and wonder if the late-night swim was a good idea. The keys are no where to be found.

“Where did you leave them?” I ask Henry over the breaking waves.

“I’m not sure,” he answers.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath.

We poke around in silence for a few moments when the car turns on suddenly and speeds away. I realize silently that the keys were never missing, but simply concealed in one of our four other friend’s pockets.

“Let’s run,” Henry says immediately and we take off down the beachside road, sprinting full force, our bare feet slapping loudly against the pavement, the beach crashing in the distance and the wind ripping at my face.

“Try to make it behind that building,” he says, between audible breaths, “before they come back.”

The car makes a U-turn and is now heading toward us. I feel the headlights behind me as I swerve behind the building and crouch down, back pressed against the wood. I try to catch my breath. The car slows, but continues past us.

We are on Shelter Island, a few blocks from Henry’s family’s house where we are all staying. I’ve been editing a documentary here with Henry and Rel for the past month or so, typically in week-long stretches, heading back to the city when necessary. (“Afterschool’s” premiere at the New York Film Festival, a well-paying editing job, negotiating a new lease with my landlord, etc.)

But for the most part, the last month has been spent here, 100 miles from New York City. My roommate, Mark, has free reign of our apartment, and my downstairs office sits completely empty.

“Let’s go,” says Henry, and we take off jogging up the hill away from the beach. “We’ll take the back way.”

We duck into the bushes to avoid two passing cars and we make it back to the house literally seconds after our four friends.

I overheard them talking about this game the night before. They call it “Lights out, scare factory” and I watch as one by one the lights go off in the house, the curtains are drawn and the doors locked. We have become the outside team. Our goal is to scare the inside team and eventually get into the house by any means necessary. I guess the only discernable rule is the game must start organically, without preparation.

Still barefoot, Henry and I approach the house cautiously. As we catch a glimpse of someone inside, we both drop silently to the grass. The person turns out to be a life-sized cutout version of John McCain, bought for Rel’s birthday, placed cunningly in front of the window.

I follow Henry around the house as we peek into windows and eventually come to the outdoor shower, which leads us climbing up onto the roof to check the upstairs windows. (Don’t worry, dear reader, this is not the story of me breaking my leg.)

To get onto the island, you have to take a ferry that stops running at midnight. During the summer, the island’s population increases by 10,000, but off-season, it’s relatively quiet. One third of the island is untouched, a wildlife preserve. I enjoy being out of the city. And I have a newfound respect for my hometown, preferring recently to be slightly out of touch, not having to think of the uncontrolled craziness going on in the world.

I lay flat against the roof looking up at the stars.

I make it into the dark house through a downstairs window and creep silently past Rel’s other life-sized cutout of Barack Obama, which is, of course, much less scary.

- Zachary Stuart-Pontier