9 things to happen at the rave that are scarier than Halloween

Halloween weekend is upon us and there are many things to be scared of. There's monsters and ghouls, Stephen King movies and all-too-realistic haunted houses.

But never mind all the make-believe horrors, there are real life nightmares that are more heart-stopping, blood-chilling and straight up terrifying in comparison.

And they all happen at the rave.

Sydney is Mixmag's US Digital Content Editor. Follow her on Twitter here

It’s the weekend!!! Party time with the boys!!

You’ve been waiting all month for this, a night with the most solid crew. Your favorite people are visiting from out of town and an epic night has been promised - special goodies included.

So maybe you spent your entire paycheck on some party favors and had the lads throw down a few 20s to make sure everyone is well-fed. This is a special occasion and we want MAXIMUM VELOCITY.

You arrive to the venue, your crew side-smiling each other as you stride past security.

Rave, rave, rave. Dance, dance, dance. So on and so forth.

It’s been a solid few hours and you’re feelin’ jazzzzzy.

“Hey man, let’s go to the bathroom!”

Your crew marches towards the corner as you dig deep through your pocket.

Keys. Wallet. Chapstick. Random pink Starburst your uber driver gave you (niceee).

Ah, you feel the scratchy plastic corner of that fat bag you stowed away. You pull at its edge and bring it to the surface.

But what’s that? This isn’t a baggie, zip-locked safe and ready to greet you with a smile. It’s a half-shredded, polyurethane RECTANGLE OF DEVASTATION.

The baggie has broke, ripped by your keys like the strings of your heart. The sweat and mayhem of the club have melted whatever you might have salvaged into the fabric of your jeans, leaving nothing but a few specks and a ruined pink Starburst.

You turn to the lads “Sorry guys, I’ve got some bad news…”

It’s that time of the night. You’ve been dreading this moment since you got to the venue, but it is inevitable. You KNEW you shouldn’t have eaten that mexican food before coming out, but the extra guac was FREE.

The venue is overpacked and there’s only one bathroom that’s not out of order. The line seems miles long and you’ve waited 45 minutes for your turn. By the time you’re next, a crowd of 30 is behind you praying you’ll be quick.

Moments later the time has come. You swing the door open and pull down your knickers. Ah, sweet sacred relief. Thank GOD.

You can hear your fellow partiers clamoring outside for you to hurry up.

“One second!” you yell as you turn to reach for some tissue...

Everything goes dark, your heart drops and your blood runs ice cold.

Is there nothing good and pure in this world? Did you do some unspeakable act of evil in your past life? Is this some sick punishment for that time you stole a candy bar from the corner store when you were 6? WHY GOD, WHY.

There, staring at you in the eye like the damn devil - a light brown cardboard roll hanging from the wall, void of any cottony soft paper left.

Well fuck…

You’re in rare form tonight. The warehouse is extra hot and sweaty and you’ve been dancing your ass off for the past five hours. Until now you’ve managed to quench your thirst with drinks bought by friends and one cheeky sneak into VIP.

But now you’re parched and you need some good old fashioned H2O.

You fight your way through the crowd just to experience a grueling 15 minute wait at the bar.

“One bottle of water please!”, you bellow over the deafening bass as you reach into your wallet for some bills.

“£10 sir”, the bartender replies as he turns his back to sort another drink.

“No no, just one bottle! One water!”

“Yes, £10 mate!”

You squint into the distance and read down the bar’s menu. Ah, water!

Wait...you hadn’t misheard. 10 pounds. 10 whole pounds. That’s so many pounds, and so little water. But you’re SO DAMN THIRSTY. And it’s SO DAMN HOT.

Maybe that hose you saw outside isn’t so bad…

“One cup of ice please!”

Favorite DJ. Favorite club. Oh yeah, IT’S ON.

You’re going to dance like theres no tomorrow and get that front row spot. Don’t be surprised if you somehow sprout the ability to do backflips, because this shit’s about to be on fire.

Fast-forward three-hours, you stand at the edge of the club’s entrance staring into a sea of wiggling humans packed shoulder-to-shoulder like livestock.

You can do this. You’ll weave your way to the front. Spin in a circle, side-step side-step, make your own room like the techno divinity you are!

Alright, here we go.

“‘Scuse me, pardon me! Just trying to make my way through!”

10 minutes of contorting through the gaps. Elbow to the head. Tripping over shoes. An ice cold drink spilled half way down your back. Caught air-tight between an offensively graphic make-out sesh. You’re thrashed back and forth like a ragdoll between steaming hot bodies and clearly blacked out party-goers.

Then, you turn to your right and a massive sweaty body slides like a warm fish 45 degrees across your face.

NOOOOOPE.

Seems like the only headliner you’ll be seeing tonight is DJ Disappointment.

You’ve been chasing this one for months and they’ve finally agreed to come for a night out.

“How much are tickets though?”, they ask with concern.

“Don’t sweat it, it’s free! I put you on the list”.

Ah, rack up those brownie points.

So you roll up fresh, beaming as you stride past the block-long line of ticket holders with your date on your arm.

One-on-one dance party? Locked in.

You hand over your ID with a little too much “I can’t believe they’re even asking my last name” before all goes to shit.

“Sorry, you’re not on the list.”

Wait what? But you double checked, you triple checked that confirmation. Oh no, oh no. Not tonight!

The doorman runs through again, “Can’t help you. If you’re not on, you’re not on!”

You frantically text and call your friend trying to salvage the night.

“Hey just walked up, they’re saying I’m not listed?”

“Hey, what name did you put my spot under?

“Hey, I’m at the door, you here?”

“HELLO. NOT ON LIST. PLEASE ADVISE.”

After six desperate attempts and 20 minutes of your date looking from side to side as herds of others pass through the guest list threshold..

“EXCUSE ME. If you’re not on the list please wait over there”, pointing to a lone corner housing a recycling bin and your last strand of dignity.

*Shame face emoji*

We all know coat check sucks.

It’s bad enough you had to wear a coat in the first place. But now you have to wait on line, try your best not to lose a small numbered piece of cardboard the size of a dime and jump between hating how hot it is in the club and how cold you are every time you need a cigarette.

A night of full techno mayhem has finally come to the end and the crowd awaiting their outerwear is a complete frenzy. Screaming, pushing... you just want your damn coat!

But now it’s your turn and praise the rave lords! You STILL have your ticket in your back pocket.

Front of the line baby, shit’s about to get real warm and satisfactory.

You hand in your tag and wait patiently.

But soon patience becomes fear as you watch the attendant sift aimlessly, then manically through rows of hangers over and over. And over and over again. And then, you guessed it, another time over.

“Sir, we can’t find your coat. What does it look like?”

“Uhh, it’s black.”

*facepalm*

Ah, porta-potties. The bane of every raver’s existence. They are ever so disgusting, so smelly, sometimes so gut-wrenchingly horrid (especially on the third day of a summer festival) you try and convince yourself you don’t require basic human bodily functions.

But then again, you actually do. And when you got to go, you got to go.

You stumble in, holding your breath. Oh no, this smell. Why is it so dark? Why don’t they put lights in these things? Where is the toilet paper? How did Pangea happen?

Alright, got to see what you're doing. Thank god you have your brand new iPhone X and its flashlight is 10 times brighter than your last one! Hurrah for technology!

*click*

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD. THIS IS THE WORST THING YOU HAVE EVER SEEN.

You wince in disbelief at a swell of human waste mocking you from below. You start to gag just enough for your grip to slip, your shiny new iPhone toppling into the abyss.

MAN DOWN, MAN DOWN.

*plop*

Uhh.. does the Apple warranty cover this kind of ...shit?

WOOO! YOU MADE IT TO THE AFTERS! You’re a damn dancing machine and you’re not stopping anytime soon.

Five hours? Eight hours? Twelve hours? Pft, child’s play!

You’re on cloud nine and things are getting ridiculously groovy. Hell, is there a cloud 10? Cloud 11? CLOUD 180,000?

Smooth jams rattle the dance floor as the sun rises, warming your soul as dark silhouettes turn into flickering shadows against the illuminated concrete.

But alas, between scrambling out the door to catch your uber and choke down one last tequila shot, you seem to have forgotten the most vital afterparty accessory…

Your SUNGLASSES.

Now everything seems far too bright. Far too light. Far too APPARENT.

The real world burns and you’re missing those magical pieces of tinted plastic that block out the pain.

How are you supposed look up in bliss when scorching hot energy is blasting holes through your retinas?!

Well.. it was good while it lasted.

We all get a bit frivolous at times. Hell, when the music’s good and the vibe is strong the credit card swipe is your favorite dance move.

Drinks on me? Drinks on you? FUCK IT. DRINKS FOR EVERYONE ON EVERYONE IT’S RAVE O’CLOCK.

Fast forward to the morning.

Ugh, why is the sun so loud? Everything hurts. How does one get a bloody mary delivered?

Guess you should check your bank balance before ordering some hangover grub.

Mmm, bacon.

Wait what? One, two, three, FOUR ZEROS? No, that can’t be right. Better log in and out again.

Aaaaaand, nope.

That’s right. That’s completely right. You spent over a grand last night at the club and now it’s coming back to you that you demanded all your friends call you The Sauce Boss.

Well, alright then. Maybe you can just eat some bread.