I had been there for lunch. I had been there for dinner, and even for a drink or two. Of all the times I had been to Homer’s Haunted Mill, I had never actually been through the three stories of special effects and horror because, frankly, I’m scared to death of it. With Halloween fast approaching, I decided to finally take owner Lance Cuffle up on his offer of a complimentary tour, much to his and his staff’s amusement.

I once braved the shortened version of the mill, which was about one third the size of the current operation. Against my better judgment, I took my absentee girlfriend there on one of our first dates, also known as chapter one in my book on smoothness.

By the end of our tour, I could no longer feel my arm from excess squeezing, and had irreparable damage done to both ear drums. Imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t been there to comfort me. She has since retreated to Spain and by doing so can avoid dates with me for the entire month of October. I can take a hint.

Lance guaranteed me that the new version was nothing like the old one ... it was far more frightening. Needless to say, I was in desperate search of a brave soul to help me through the maze of mayhem.

An employee named Kevin - who used to work as a prison guard - seemed like a good choice. Much to my dismay, Kevin refused the invitation. As a matter of fact, Kevin refuses to go in the house period. He assured me that “dealing with convicts isn’t as scary as it is in there.” Kevin also dabbles in motivational speaking.

While looking for another candidate to witness my demasculinization by way of girlish screams, I told some workers of a haunted house in Pontiac. At this particular house, the owner offers employees $20 bonuses every time someone relieves their fears by relieving themselves. This inspired about $200 worth of stories, and a precautionary trip to the bathroom for yours truly.

Eventually, a very nice woman named Cindy was roped into playing Dorothy to my lion, and is almost guaranteed to be on the next flight to Spain. Cindy and I braved through the body bag room, survived the chainsaw room and nearly lost it in the cloth room (scarier than it sounds.)

After about 15 minutes, Cindy optimistically observed that we had made it to the top. “That means we have to go all the way back down,” I reminded her.

Cindy and I eventually made it to the end and were greeted by a slew of workers who found my noticeable fear quite amusing. Upon gathering my wits, I asked if I could hide in the dark corners of the house to see what made the haunted house tick. More than happy to oblige, an employee by the name of Buzz escorted me to the chainsaw room, where death himself awaited unsuspecting victims like a lion stalking prey in the jungle brush.

“It’s all fun and games until someone comes around that corner. Then it’s time to get serious and really scare the crap out of them,” which I’m having tatooed on my forehead next week.

Other employees divulged the secrets to reducing the adult men to screams more accustomed to seven-year-old girls, claiming “there’s nothing quite like seeing a grown man curl-up scared in the corner.”

Uhhh ... hypothetically speaking of course.