1 of 3
Photo by Olaf Growald
Actors from Hangman's House of Horrors
Actors from Hangman's House of Horrors
2 of 3
Photo by Olaf Growald
Actors from Hangman's House of Horrors
Actors from Hangman's House of Horrors
3 of 3
Photo by Olaf Growald
Actors from Hangman's House of Horrors
Actors from Hangman's House of Horrors
It took just about an hour of parking lot duty at Hangman’s House of Horrors for Allen Wyatt to realize what path he’d follow for the next nine years. Or, more specifically, those fleeing down that path he’d follow.
No more of this shit, Wyatt, bored, thought as blood-curdling screams from young and old racked ears inside the building from which he sat yards away. That fateful night would lead to the eventual birth of Clevlen the Hillbilly, Wyatt’s alter ego, born from a man who’d never performed but developed a taste for paranoia. Clevlen’s among dozens stitched into one wicked family.
This family feeds on fear and cracks beers to reminisce over how many preys of the night they pushed toward the brink of insanity. They’re in the business of coercing grown adults to bolt off, then cornering them as they cower down onto all fours surrounded in darkness. The cherry on top comes whenever they urinate, as one middle-aged woman did when stunned by Clevlen the Hillbilly.
“She said, ‘I hope you’re happy. I peed myself,’” Wyatt says. “I thought, Yeah, I’m happy. You got your scare.”
Meet the men and women who feed off your innate fear of death.
Like father, like son
Nathaniel Wyatt, Allen’s son, can predict how guests will react to being jumped by his persona, Clem the Hillbilly. He uses that know-how to his advantage, even pushing the haunt beyond the walls of Hangman’s.
“I’ve chased people into the parking lot and jumped into the back of their truck. A couple of times, people have driven off, so I’ve had to jump out real quick,” Nathaniel says.
The horrific honky-tonk duo started at Hangman’s around the same time, inspired by the charity work. They’d both realize over the years just how it is “scaring the absolute shit” out of people.
It’s led them to theorize why exactly people pay to be traumatized. The Wyatts believe the niche entertainment provides an escape not easily found elsewhere; you won’t find this kind of spooks in horror video games or movies. Something about hovering inches away from a stranger’s face, for Nathaniel, forges a different kind of experience.
“It’s a brotherhood,” Nathaniel says. “It really is. It becomes like a second family to you. You’ll hang around and have a few beers. It just becomes its own thing in and out of the costume.”
Why so serious?
Good luck trying to distinguish William Wilkerson’s true personality from his act, Bi-Po the Clown. Maniacal laughs and demented smiles interject themselves into Wilkerson’s regular conversation.
Like the Wyatts, Wilkerson often uses the word “family” to illustrate the bond between him and his fellow hysterical peers. Each night, everybody goes through the same line for part assignments, the same line for makeup application, and see the same drama among their co-haunters.
“We’re like brothers and sisters. We have fights just like brothers and sisters. People come and go in arguments, then come back,” Wilkerson says. “We have quite a few veteran actors that have been doing this for 30-some-odd years. And they still come back.”
Bi-Po the Clown was in full costume whenever he was buckled and on his way to Overton Park off Hulen Street to chat with Fort Worth Magazine. Actors aren’t typically allowed to be in costume outside of Hangman’s, so he couldn’t resist imparting unnerving grins at fellow, ogling motorists.
“For the longest time, I’ve just thoroughly enjoyed startling and scaring the crap out of people,” Wilkerson says. “It gives you an instant feel of power for a short amount of time.
“I couldn’t help myself driving over here. People were looking at me, and I was laughing my ass off on the way here.”
Caught in a not-so-bad romance
Megan Geiger has been assaulted a number of times the past three years at Hangman’s. Performing as Jingles the Clown, some guests have gotten too close and personal with her. Security has been called more than once, and she’s even suffered a concussion mid-show before.
Hangman’s still holds a special spot in Geiger’s heart.
Geiger is well-respected among the clown sect at Hangman’s, vaunted as a tightknit sub-community within the haunted house and only bested by the elite-class chainsaw wielders. It’s come from passing trial and tribulation, both from her unexpected guest altercations and from being sized up by fellow jesters — clown culture only accepts the best.
“You have to be asked by the head honchos,” Geiger says. “They test you. If I didn’t do what they wanted, I wasn’t able to stay.”
In turn, Geiger eventually asked Duncan Lowrey to join the monster mash. He plays a gentleman with half of his face incinerated. And soon, he’ll play husband whenever the two are married and wed by a fellow Hangman’s actor in June of 2020.
“Hangman’s has been an important part of my life, with everything I’ve gone through as a kid growing up and on to becoming a woman,” Geiger says. “I started bringing him up with me. And now we’re getting married.”
Horror actors have feelings, too.
Clowns Bi-Po and Jingles blushed as they doted over each other’s brand of performance. They’re prideful at rising through the horrific ranks in the nearly 20 years between the two. In a way, they also offer a sort of perverse therapy for patrons.
“We’ve probably helped a lot of people with phobias,” Wilkerson says. “It’s like swimming. At first, you don’t want it. You’re scared of it. But once you’ve been in the water long enough, it becomes fine. A tolerance is built.”
For Geiger, the door to haunted house acting is wide open, and she encourages those to explore the grittier side of human nature.
“I think anyone could act in a haunted house,” Geiger says. “There’re so many different characters you could play. Something scary, something funny, to a victim … anything. You try to become something else to a complete stranger.”
