Walking Trail

Jack had always been a peculiar boy, with a penchant for things that sent chills down most people's spines. In the heart of the woods, he meticulously crafted a playground that mirrored his darkest imaginings, a place he called Jacko’s Inferno.

The first part of Jack's playground included the Witch House. It was a small, dilapidated shack made of ancient, worm-eaten wood, standing precariously on stilts above the ground. Inside, Jack had arranged a collection of bizarre trinkets—dried animal bones, jars filled with strange, unidentifiable substances, and a cauldron that he kept filled with a foul-smelling concoction.

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!

Walking Trail

“The Gardens of Widow’s Walk”

In the quaint town of Crow Hollow, the gardens surrounding the old mansion held a chilling reputation. For generations, locals whispered about Elizabeth Blackwell “Mother”, the widow who once tended to the lush grounds. Her husband, Jacob had mysteriously vanished one stormy night, and Elizabeth spent her days nurturing the roses, hiding a dark secret beneath their beauty.

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.

Walking Trail

The crumbling ruin of the chocolate factory throws open its rusty gates to welcome you. Sweet smells from within promise tempting flavors, yet the gaping maw of the entrance threatens you with its own terrible appetite. After decades of deathly silence, the blood-soaked legacy of the place has been all but forgotten. A warped jingle plays over crackling speakers, luring hungry townsfolk inside. “Sweet as sugar, sticky and red…taste the candy, join the dead!”

Behind soot-black walls and peeling posters, vats of syrupy chocolate hide the remains of their victims while underground pipes pump in human sourced ingredients from the old funeral parlor. When corpses run out, the living become the blend. Deep below the place an ancient hunger stirs, feeding on fear and flesh and granting a perverse immortality to those who sate its dreadful appetite. To live forever is truly bittersweet.

Haunted House

The Lunar Motel had been a pit stop for the damned long before the first neon flicker of its crescent moon sign.

Back in the 1950s, it lured in the misfit travelers: the once-happy vacationing family (now broken by secrets), the fading prom king and queen (rotting in their vanity), the gluttonous food truck woman (who was rumored to serve more than just beef), the disbarred doctor (whose scalpel was never truly put away), and of course—the motel’s owner, a twitchy-eyed voyeur who installed hidden passageways and two-way mirrors.

Then, one autumn night it exploded! It gutted the Lunar Motel down to its bones. No cause was ever determined. No bodies were ever found. Some whispered that the motel itself refused to let its residents leave. Some said they never did.

Developers bought the lot. Ignoring the town’s nervous whispers, they rebuilt the motel. New name. Skinner Motel - Same retro-style rooms. “A New Experience!” the ad boasted.

They reopened to travelers under a blood-red full moon.

And almost immediately, guests began to check in who felt… familiar.

A family of four rented Room 3. They smiled too widely. Their laughter was shrill, the mother’s hands clenching and unclenching as if resisting the urge to strike.

A beautiful young couple, glowing like they had just left a prom, took Room 7. They posed for endless selfies, but if you looked closely, their faces were too tight, their eyes too hollow.

A woman in a grease-stained apron set up her food truck, selling “handmade treats” that smelled a little off.

A man who introduced himself as a “life coach” moved into Room 2 - where strange thudding and gurgling noises kept neighboring guests awake at night.

And the new owner? A slick, smiling man named Mr. Vance who offered free upgrades only to rooms with hidden cameras.

The Lunar Motel had rebuilt itself. But it hadn’t been rebuilt for the living.

Some of the guests, it seemed, were the same as before reanimated, trapped in a mockery of their former lives.

Others were new. Fresh blood. They didn’t know yet that once you checked in to Skinner’s Motel... you didn’t always check out.

Not by your own choice.

Each night, the walls grew a little thinner.

Rooms bled memories. Mirrors wept with old footage. The neon moon outside seemed to pulse beating like a heart, keeping the dead and the living bound together.

And soon, the newcomers, the happy families, the young couples, the tired truckers would begin to change too.

Haunted House

“There’s a fly in my soup.” Consider yourself lucky if that’s all you find. Don’t complain to the staff unless you want your ear chewed off– and then served back to you with a side of fries.

From the roadside, Glutton’s resembles a typical greasy spoon diner. Once you enter that all changes. The smell that assaults you from the kitchen will make your eyes tear. It’s like summer roadkill set ablaze. Above the counter, what you first mistake as hanging fly strips, turn out to be disturbing folk art. It’s best not to ask what the pagan symbols mean.

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!

Haunted Attraction

The stories are all the same. Never go down to her shack. Don’t speak to her. And most important of all, NEVER listen to what she says.

There’s a broken down shack near Terpening’s farm on the outskirts of Crow Hollow. A haggard old woman dwells within, Mama Rose. Rumor has it that she was once the wife of a prosperous businessman in Crow Hollow, until he disappeared.

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.

Corn Maze

This land rewards its caretakers with pumpkins to carve, corn to reap, and souls harvest. These fields grow more than you know and take more than you may be willing to give.

As you make your way through the corn, keep your eyes open and your mind closed. Make no mistake, you’re being hunted. Don’t accept gifts from smiling strangers, especially if that gift is a necklace. You see, Samhain is upon us, and some who celebrate mark their chosen offerings with trinkets.

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.

Haunted Attraction

Lucy Fear and her band of freaks welcome you to their humble circus. Each autumn they return, emerging from the night mist like a phantom parade. It’s said they’re summoned by the first jack-o-lantern lit in Crow Hollow each year, and that Lucy’s entire camp vanishes at dawn the morning the last carved pumpkin rots. One thing is certain, Lucy Fear and her troupe have become as much a part of the Hollow’s Samhain rites as the sacrificial bonfires.

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.

Haunted House

“Fear the Dullahan, the harbinger of doom. He is the messenger of Death and the wrath of the old gods. To fail in proper sacrifice is to provoke his release upon all who you hold dear.”
-The Crow Hollow Book of High Druids, Author Unknown

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.

Walk Thru Maze

There on the hilltop, you see it. A structure surrounded by an eerie fog. People in these parts call it The Crow’s Cage, for this is the place where the town of Crow Hollow exiles those who refuse the ancient ways and are unworthy of becoming proper Samhain offerings. It is a cursed place, built for suffering to amuse petty forgotten gods.

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.

Haunted House

Tucked away at the edge of the forgotten farming town of Crow Hollow lies an overgrown greenhouse, its shattered panes glinting like broken teeth beneath the moonlight. It was once a place of promise, run by a reclusive botanist named Dr. Elias Grinshaw once hailed as a genius in agronomy and plant pathology. But his obsession with crop resilience, disease resistance, and genetic manipulation took a dark, irreversible turn after the death of his only child.

Grinshaw’s daughter, Clara, died from a rare fungal infection contracted after a picnic in their family cornfield. Wracked with grief and fury at nature’s cruelty, he locked himself inside the greenhouse and vowed to bend nature to his will. The locals whispered that he had gone mad muttering to his plants, feeding them blood, and tending to them in the dead of night with syringes and scalpels.

He began experimenting with a mutated strain of corn smut fused with parasitic cordyceps. This bio-engineered fungus could lie dormant in the seed, waiting. His goal was to create a crop that would never succumb to blight or pest immune to drought, disease, and death itself. But instead, he cultivated The Hollow Blight, a pathogen that did not feed on the corn… it fed on the consumer.

Haunted House

Once a bustling center of innovation and progress, this infamous medical facility has lain dormant for decades after a contagion spread through the wards like a plague.

Some claim the catalyst was the mad notion to incorporate druidic rites and necromancy with questionable science. Why else did the final procedure have to occur during Samhain? And whatever became of the blasphemous tomes a lab technician stole from the Crow Hollow Museum? Perhaps we’ll never know.

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.

Haunted House

This house is alive and it longs for a family of its own. It spies on visitors through cracks in the plaster with its jealous, watchful eyes. Some say the place is possessed by the former owner, a lonely old outcast desperate to be loved. She committed horrific acts in the name of dark forces and made terrible sacrifices, all in hope of being rewarded with a family of her own. She died alone anyway, but perhaps something of her seeped into the foundations of this place.

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.