Friends, only three things scare me in this world, the first being sharks.

A short-fin Mako can jump 20 feet in the air and has been clocked at 22 mph. Neither trait is OK when you consider the average human swims at a rate of 3.5 mph. To a shark, a surfer is polish sausage on a dinner plate.

The other two things most likely to make me soil myself are ghosts and demons. Not only do I believe they exist, I don’t think I could win in a fight with them. I’m a big guy. I know how to handle myself. But I can’t punch a ghost in the face. And I don’t know voodoo.

I was in the middle of explaining this to my editor when he said “Hey! This would make a great story! How would you like to go to the Amenti Haunted House at the Egyptian Theatre in DeKalb?”

Dan’s interior thought: “I would rather chug drano.”

Dan’s exterior statement: “I would love to!”

My theory on haunted houses is the same as my theory on super-duper-evaporate-my-eyebrows hot sauce.

Pain is not a flavor.

Likewise, a haunted house requires spending my hard earned money to be scared by the same things with which I have a legitimate bone to pick. No pun intended.

I’ve been dragged to these events for four years – usually by beautiful women I’m either trying to date or have been dating, and I want to maintain the illusion that I’m impervious to fear. While in line for Statesville Haunted Prison last fall, my girlfriend at the time began to explain her theory of haunted houses and serial killers.

According to her, it’s the perfect crime. Screaming, blood, gore, cramped spaces, pitch-black and, to top it all off, the patrons have no idea what’s coming next. A serial killer could theoretically work at the haunted house, know where the exits are, kill you and drag you away without your friends having any idea.

Thanks sweetheart. I have no idea why we broke up.

Thursday, I dragged my roommate Taylor to the 6th Annual Amenti Haunted House at the Egyptian Theatre, 135 N. Second St. The line was dark and crowded, winding between 10-foot walls of black ply-wood, smoke machines and screams. Seven hundred people go through on a nightly basis with all proceeds going to the non-for-profit organization that runs the Egyptian Theatre. I asked the executive director, Alex Nerad, just how scary is the attraction?

“Depends how brave you are,” Alex smiled fiendishly.

My roommate chose this exact moment to say, “You know, this really is the ideal environment for a serial killer. It’s the perfect crime!”

Damn you, Taylor.

Making it through the line, a skeleton bathed in red light gave us instructions on how to get through the house successfully. The only rule I ignored: Don’t run.

Around every corner is a fresh hell. Egyptian Kings swinging staffs and screaming, hillbillies eating people-stew and clowns who make “IT” and John Wayne Gacy look like Bozo.

Luckily, our break-neck pace eventually ran us into a different group, and the people in front caught the brunt of the scares while I, safe in the back, walked calmly.

I made the exit and thanked my lucky stars. I guess the serial killer had the night off. Exhaling, Taylor and I begin to walk back to the car and laugh with bravado at how it really wasn’t all that scary.

I say “begin to walk” because by the end we were sprinting away from a zombie wielding a chain saw, and we were crying.

It was terrifying, exhilarating and one of the scariest haunted houses to which I’ve ever been. I’m very glad it’s over, and at the end of the day, it’s better than being eaten by a shark.

The demons showed mercy. A shark does not.