Orela Rose

Orela Rose grew up on Chicago’s far north side in Roger’s Park, just blocks from Lake Michigan. Her dad was a firefighter, and her mom was a nurse. She couldn’t help but observe how much they sacrificed to help others, and she knew she would one day do the same in her own way. Orela majored in hospitality at Lakehead University. Freshman year she bonded with Emily, a girl in her restaurant management class who helped her through her transition. Emily was a huge fan of horror movies, and she regularly listened to recordings of an old podcast called All Things Wicked This Night. The host, Sable Ward, often talked about the stories of a horror writer named Cliff Barra. Many were made into the movies in the 1950s and became cult classics. The art director, Alex Damaro, survived the horrors of war and infused his macabre sets and costumes with a palpable sense of dread. Orela and Emily couldn’t get enough. They hung out at the Hard Boiled Cafe, a coffee shop and bookstore with a 1950s mystery theme. They so loved the atmosphere; they made plans to one day open a themed restaurant of their own. They would create a dining experience that recreated the horror stories, characters, sets, and costumes of Barra and Damaro. A place where people could escape their humdrum lives to spend an hour or two living on the edge. The idea so excited them they created a haunted house for Halloween to try out those same ideas. They commandeered an empty college dormitory to build The Haunted Madhouse of Doom. On Halloween dozens of students lined up to experience the terror of an insane asylum based on one of Cliff Barra’s most celebrated stories. Orela led groups of laughing and screaming college students past padded cells and torture chambers filled with axe murderers, groaning zombies, and wailing ghosts. The shock therapy room featured a jury-rigged shock table. Emily played the part of a writhing patient wired up for a shock treatment. She wore a headpiece fitted with electrodes that would light up and smoke and spark once Orela told one of the students to throw the switch. They used the shock table dozens of times and each time Emily would shake and shriek like a banshee, eliciting a chorus of delighted screams. This time, however, a frayed wire shorted out and Emily didn’t shriek but went rigid as her face contorted into a silent scream. There were sparks and smoke and the smell of burnt meat. Miraculously, Emily was still alive after Orela pulled the plug. They called for an ambulance and as they waited, Emily’s breathing grew shallower and shallower. Orela felt helpless. Useless. Worthless. By the time the EMTs finally arrived, Emily was gone. The very next day, Orela dropped out of college and started training to become an EMT. She never ever wanted to feel that helpless again. Her parents were surprised but supported her and within a year Orela was driving an ambulance and saving lives. She had a natural talent for soothing and calming those who needed her most. Both nurturing and protective, she had a knack for taking charge and bringing people together. Still, she never forgot Emily or their dream of opening a horror-themed restaurant based on the movies of Barra and Damaro. Working as an EMT, she knew it would take her years to save enough money. But then one day, she rescued Jon Kingsly, a man worth billions. Called to the scene of a terrible car crash, she found he wasn’t breathing. She instantly performed CPR and restarted his heart with a portable defibrillator. His doctor later said he would have surely died if not for Orela. Grateful for saving his life, he offered to finance her dreams and gifted her an old building located at 900 Blud Lane across an old cemetery. With financing and the perfect location, Orela hired some friends to help her design the most immersive horror experience ever. Screams in the Dark would open only one weekend a month to start. Each time with a completely unique set, theme and menu. Soon it was all horror enthusiasts could talk about. People loved the Barra/Damaro esthetic, and many wanted Orela to open six days a week. But for Orela it wasn’t about the money. She was perfectly content saving lives Monday through Friday and creating horror and mayhem once a month. One time she themed the experience around a Barra story about a mysterious fog that transported victims to another dimension. Some believed the words in the story were cursed and somehow made readers disappear. She laughed those superstitions off until later that night when a black fog rose up around her. She hurried outside, but the black fog was everywhere. She froze suddenly and called out to her friends. No one answered. Then she heard— Cries for help— Calling out to her from the dark. Orela didn’t panic. She never panicked. She merely assessed the situation and pushed through the thickening fog until she froze with a sudden realization. They sounded like her cries, and they seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. For the first time in years, Orela felt a shudder run down her spine as she realized her dream had somehow led her into a living nightmare. A nightmare not unlike the one described in Barra’s cursed story. And as she processed this strange observation, the anguished cries came again, and again, louder and more desperate. Only this time there were many different voices and one of them sounded like— Emily. Instantly, Orela shook off her superstitions and became all business as she urgently searched the dark abyss for the wounded and dying before it was too late.