![]() It stays with you its power amazes you more every day. ![]() Or the memories of the things I’d seen and touched and felt. Getting separated from Lucky proved as much, as she’d seen an entirely different show than I had in the hours we spent apart.įor several days afterward, I couldn’t shake the smell of cemetery. The story unfolds around you, and even when you think you’ve seen everything you’ve missed at least half. Or you can just roam on your own and see what happens. You can follow whoever you find, whoever you like. And followed Macbeth as his Lady manipulated him through murder and crazy sexfights. Moving trees in the half-lit ballroom-Burnham wood marching on Dunsinane-were menacing. Standing in gumshoe detective office where Malcolm joined us, I felt like I was in the safest place I could even imagine and his presence only served to make the room more soothing. The air in the candy shop was sweet, like a momentary escape from an extended nightmare. In the darkness, it seemed impossible that something awful wasn’t lurking behind every crumbling brick wall or monument, waiting to accost me. The cemetery smelled like hundreds of years of decay, damp with two day old rain. My every sense was employed to immerse me in the experience of Sleep No More. Wandering the performance space, everything I saw or touched-every drawer I opened or book I thumbed through-was a part of the story. I have never, never experienced anything as amazing as Sleep No More. (A scene that, looking back, probably lead to Lucky being torn out of my clutches and forced to go it alone herself.)īut every second of that fear was worth it. I caused a minor scene in the elevator when the operator gave me the impression I was going to be forced to experience the show alone. Even just thinking back on Sleep No More, I am shaking again.Įven medicated, I was still utterly terrified when I reached the fictional McKittrick Hotel and our journey through Sleep No More began. And if you move too quickly or drop something near me any day of the year, I am likely to jump and scream like a gunshot has just gone off. In fact, I try to avoid leaving the house on Halloween altogether. I am also terrified of people wearing masks (every audience member is required to wear one) and I can barely set foot in a costume shop for more than a few minutes before it’s hard for me to breathe. To give you a bit of background, I had one of the worst panic attacks of my life on a haunted trail walk. It is beautiful, physically moving, vaguely terrifying and absolutely, unequivocally amazing. It is as much haunted house as it is theater, a heady combination of Hitchcock’s style and Macbeth’s dark plot arcs. Staged over several floors in a warehouse in Chelsea, Sleep No More is basically impossible to adequately explain. I ran for the Valiums, just to make sure they were there, before I even considered the invitation. ![]() I recognized the name immediately, having read several articles in the NYTimes, and even before she could explain the show my stomach was in knots and my heart was pounding. This napkin hadn’t seen the light of day in easily a year until last month, when a good friend invited Lucky and I to join her at Punchdrunk’s Sleep No More. It’s folded into the tiniest square possible and hidden inside it are several tiny, green pills. In the top drawer of my bureau, buried at the back amidst tangles of bracelets and enormous earrings I rarely get to wear, there is a napkin.
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