Attractions

Adjacent to the Witch House was the Pumpkin House, a circular structure made entirely of oversized pumpkins. At the center of the room, a large, sinister pumpkin sat, its grin unnaturally wide, as if it knew some terrible secret.

Visitors find themselves in the heart of Jack's dark Wonderland. The Mad Hatter's Tea Party was a grotesque table, with distorted, life-sized figures of the Mad Hatter and March Hare seated at a long table, their faces frozen in maniacal grins.

The Queen of Hearts’ domain was even more chilling. The Queen herself, an imposing figure with a face contorted in eternal rage, loomed over a field of decapitated mannequin heads, each painted to resemble her unfortunate subjects.

The White Rabbit, usually a symbol of hurried whimsy, had been transformed into a gaunt, shadowy figure whose eyes darted nervously, forever glancing over its shoulder as if expecting an unseen pursuer.

His eerie playground was the Swamp. A murky, stagnant pond sat at its center, its water so dark it seemed to swallow the light.  Jack had dragged old, twisted mannequins into the muck, half-submerged, their vacant eyes staring lifelessly at any who dared to approach. One of the newer additions to Jacko’s Inferno was the Dinosaur Graveyard. The skeletons loomed large and menacing, with sharp, jagged teeth and talon-like claws. The bones seemed to come alive, and the roars reverberated through the trees, making it hard to distinguish imagination from reality.

Further along the winding path, Jack erected his Frightening Scarecrows. Each scarecrow wore a grotesque mask, hand-painted by Jack with eerie precision, depicting twisted, horrifying faces that seemed almost alive in the flickering twilight.

But the most disturbing part of Jacko’s Inferno was The Hollow Man. At the farthest edge of his playground, Jack had constructed a towering figure out of sticks, rags, and old bones.

Jack had outdone himself this time. The small house, with its weathered wood and sagging roof, seemed to exude an aura of eerie hospitality. Jack smirked as he hammered the final nail into the crooked sign that read "Dead and Breakfast."

We welcome you to the playground – Forever!

One moonless night, a curious young woman named Dahlia decided to explore the gardens, daring to follow the widow's footsteps. As she wandered among the overgrown paths, she felt a cold presence, a sorrowful whisper in the wind. Shadows danced, and the roses seemed to close in around her. Dahlia reached the mansion, its door creaking open as if inviting her inside.

Up the winding staircase she climbed, her heart pounding with every step. At the top, she found an old rocking chair facing the window, gently swaying though no one sat in it. A gust of wind blew through the room, carrying a mournful melody. Suddenly, she felt a cold hand on her shoulder. She turned, but no one was there.

Terrified, she fled, stumbling over a loose floorboard. Beneath it, she discovered a hidden compartment, revealing a bloodstained locket and a diary. With trembling hands, she read Mother’s confession: in a fit of rage, she had killed Jacob and buried him in the garden, feeding his remains to the roses she so lovingly tended.

Dahlia’s blood ran cold as she realized the roses were thriving on more than just water and sunlight. She fled the mansion, the chilling laughter of the widow echoing in her ears. Dahlia never spoke of that night, but the townsfolk noticed the haunted look in her eyes whenever she passed the gardens. The legend of Widow's Walk grew, a reminder to all: some footsteps are better left unfollowed.

Can you walk the perilous gauntlet through bloodthirsty fiends and maniacs? What sinister final test awaits you at the end? Is there any hope of escape, or are you doomed to join the deranged citizens in an endless night of Halloween mayhem? Every step you take down this path could be your last.

He glances past a row of odd scarecrows to spot bonfires beyond the tree line. He wishes he had the time and energy to party as he turns toward the Motel office. He pauses mid stride. The row of scarecrows is gone. They must have fallen down. He shuffles into the office.

The promise of a bed has given him tunnel vision. Neither the ghastly taxidermy, nor the sickly face of the leering proprietor raises red flags. This weary father is on autopilot. He scribbles his name in the guest book and takes the strangely cold and clammy room key. “Blessed Samhain to you and yours.” the haggard manager croaks as he lumbers off. Forget the suitcases. Heck, he’ll let the kids tire themselves out fighting in the car. He doesn’t bother to turn on the room light as he enters. He just collapses into bed with only darkness for a blanket. Sleep takes him.

He wakes screaming. Someone was strangling him! He discovers a beaded necklace around his neck. He doesn’t care how the new bauble got there, he just knows he has to get out. He opens the door to find a wall of scarecrows blocking his exit. Their lifeless eyes radiate hunger and malevolent intelligence. His trembling fingers find a light switch. Unhealthy yellow light flickers on to reveal peeling and moldy walls, his bed a decayed lump crawling with beetles. He shrieks, charging ahead in blind panic. The scarecrows part to let him pass. He takes several twists and turns. His surroundings make no sense. Where is he? He should be outside.

He finds himself wandering deeper into an impossible maze of weirdly connected motel rooms. Each chamber holds more unspeakable horrors than the last. He dares not turn back. What lies ahead can’t be worse than what pursues him– or so he prays.

What became of this poor fellow? Check in at the Lunar Motel and find out for yourself. We have a rich history, and we’d love to make you part of it.

You’ll find the staff perpetually moody, though in autumn you’ll be greeted with “Samhain blessings to you.” before their attitude curdles. They all suffer from peculiar skin conditions, grotesque blotches you’d expect on rotten bananas. There’s always a commotion, the barking of orders (and threats) to the kitchen, and the rush of trays to tables.

Are those two diners with beaded necklaces asleep? Why are they slumped over their food that way? They never move. The grisly sights through the kitchen window are brutal and violent. Unidentifiable meats are hacked apart then sizzled in their bloody bubbles on the filthy grill. Glutton, the proprietor, toils away in his gore splattered chef’s coat. What was that mess he just served? Was that a finger?

Behind the diner is the Slaughterhouse. Meat sourced from Crow Hollow hangs from rusty hooks. That rib cage didn’t come from a pig or cow. What animal has a head shaped like that? You wander into the processing area and your worst suspicions are realized. Human remains are being cheerily dismembered and deboned by a blood drenched lunatic. He stuffs the bones into bundles of straw and rags. He’s making scarecrows from human skeletons.

Head for the loading dock before you’re seen! Make your escape. Do not delay, or you may be tomorrow’s blue plate special. Your only chance at Gluttons is to dine and dash!

Most people believe Mama Rose was to blame for his disappearance. Some say she offered her husband as a sacrifice to something ancient and unspeakable, and it rewarded her by showing her the future. Others say her husband was unworthy of sacrifice, and her visions are a curse inflicted on her as punishment.

Mama Rose believes she can see into a person’s future, including the way they die. Many townspeople believe the same. Some claim to have seen her predictions come true. Farmers getting run over by their own tractors. Lumberjacks killed by the trees they were cutting down. On the surface these events seem mere tragic accidents, that is until you find out that Mama Rose described the tragedies in detail years before they came to pass. Some of the poor souls who heard her predictions tried to change their fates. They switched careers, moved away, gave up bad habits, made peace with enemies. It was all futile. Their lives were taken just as Mama Rose predicted. As Samhain approaches she’s eager to burden strangers with her fatal visions. She believes each death she predicts counts as a sacrifice to ancient powers, and they may in turn prolong her life. Mama Rose foretells death, but she also fears it.

So if you happen to come across that old shack, cover your ears and clear your mind or she may tell you your fate. For some of you that fate is a long way off. But for many of you, it is just around the next corner.

Your eyes haven’t deceived you, the scarecrows have changed positions. In this place they conspire against you. At this time of year they serve ancient gods with dark needs. If you fall you just may join their ranks.

The corn was healthy and strong this year, but a price must be paid for such bounty. There is no life without death. There is no escaping the pacts made long ago. For every stalk of corn in this place there is a tale of woe.

Don’t let your story end in this soil.

From Lucy’s tattered tent you’ll hear no child’s joyful squeals, nor the oohs and ahs of guests. These sounds have been replaced by the wails of mothers looking for lost offspring, the shrieks of victims offered to the old gods, and the cackles of Lucy’s lunatics. The only joy to be found here is that of the sadistic performers. The only audience are dark and invisible forces.

Those who march and perform under Lucy’s banner include the Deformed, the Deranged, the Distraught and the Deadly. The Deformed ask sympathy from passers by, but rob them of far more than can be endured. The Deranged are cursed to carry out every one of Lucy’s sinister requests. The Distraught search for loved ones who disappeared into the shadows beneath Lucy’s tent. The Deadly are clowns that once brought joy and laughter to children of all ages, but who have become chuckling Dealers in Death. All have answered the call to satisfy twisted hungers of ancient beings. The old gods play with their food. Lucy is their Jester and their Chef.

Will you emerge from the tent with your mind intact? Or will the horrors you endure fill Lucy’s troupe with glee as they offer your agony to their masters? The show never ends. No refunds.

At the edge of the cornfields, just beyond the old ruined chapel there lies a tomb shunned by all. What’s buried within lived and died as a man, but is a man no longer. The thing entombed in this unholy place is now a vessel of death and destruction. It has become the sword arm of gods ancient and forgotten, the punisher of those who violate ancient covenants. Many know this being as the Headless Horseman of local legend. Others call it dullahan, a headless spirit from old world myth that brings terror and annihilation to all with the misfortune to lay eyes upon it. Both beliefs are true, at least to the residents of Crow Hollow.

The origin of this particular dullahan goes back to the American Revolution, when a particularly bloodthirsty Hessian mercenary was decapitated with a cannonball fired by a colonist. The spirit of the Hessian refused to stay at rest, rising from the grave around harvest time each year to seek vengeance on those responsible for his death. Some claimed the horseman had made a bargain with supernatural forces and would only rest each year after claiming an ever increasing number of souls.

Word of this supernatural peril reached a group of druid’s in Europe who saw it as a sign to come and settle nearby. Their ancient and esoteric beliefs convinced them it was their sacred duty to placate and contain the Headless Horseman through devout sacrifice to their ancient gods. Those druids crossed the ocean to found the town of Crow Hollow. It is said that during Samhain, proper sacrifice to the old gods fulfills an ancient pact. The blood of the few protects the many, and those that survive this season of offerings are blessed by prosperity so long as they are willing to die when chosen. To fail this sacred duty, to break this ancient pact, would release the dullahan as punishment and no one would be spared.

If you stumble upon the Horseman’s crypt, beware. Don’t dare disturb his peace, and be ever watchful for those that serve him, for they will do you harm.

It’s said that those who built the maze created only a single safe path to escape it. Because the old gods like their sport, a slim chance of survival is offered as a cruel joke. No one has ever gotten out alive. Not everything that lurks in the maze is human. The barrier between the realms of the living and the dead decays during Samhain, and the suffering in the maze draws the undead like flies to carrion.

Farmer Terpening dared tamper with the balance of nature, performing forbidden rituals and experiments that tipped nature out of balance. He fused science and sorcery to twist plant and animal life into unnatural new species. He sought to become nature’s master, daring to upset the sacred order of things. The god’s punishment for his transgressions was swift and severe. A druid ought to have known better.

Now it is Farmer Terpening who has become twisted into something not quite human. He’s now not quite a plant, not quite an animal. He is neither living nor dead, but entirely mad. His hideous creations are allowed to exist as a warning to mankind.

In this greenhouse, don’t take time to smell the flowers. You’ll wind up feeding them instead.

What we do know is that something new had been created, something that was an affront to nature. It was a parasite that dramatically affected the host nervous system and behavior. The organism created violent delusions which drove hosts to become aggressive and unpredictable. Most of the hosts were human, or at least they used to be.

Before long, the infected ones became impossible to contain. Once the state intervened, the facility doors were shuttered and local hysteria was swiftly extinguished. After all these years, nearing the anniversary of the catastrophe, eerie lights and anguished cries emanate from this steel and concrete tomb. Are there somehow still survivors in need of rescue? Or maybe this seething plague is trapped inside and we should never risk setting it free.

Only one way to find out. We hope you’ve had your shots.

Whatever the entity in the walls of this house is, it has taken every misguided idea it has about family to create its idea of the perfect mother. The Unmother yearns for a child of her own to squeeze and hold. It longs for someone to stay here and be loved forever. But it’s a selfish love, a violent, controlling love. A child is fragile and can only be held just so tightly before it breaks. The Unmother is always on the hunt for a replacement.

Welcome to your new home, your forever home. You’ll never feel alone again. Won’t you take comfort in Mother’s arms?

She’ll keep you safe.