"Fun Land":
The year was 1972, and nothing had ever caused a stir in our small town like the arrival of Fun Land. The posters promised a spectacle that would put us on the map: “Thrills Beyond Your Wildest Dreams,” “Where the Fun Never Ends!” For weeks, it was all anyone could talk about, from the kids in school to the cashiers at the grocery store.
The park opened on a crisp summer afternoon. My older sister, Gina, and her boyfriend, Mark, were determined to be there on day one. Gina, at sixteen, was responsible for babysitting me while Mom worked, so I was reluctantly dragged along. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled about it—this was supposed to be her day to hang out with Mark. But I didn’t care. The idea of roller coasters, bright lights, and endless candy was enough to make me forget her annoyance.
As we pulled up to the entrance, I was struck by how massive Fun Land seemed. The parking lot stretched for what felt like miles, filled with cars of all shapes and colors. Beyond the gates stood towering rides that scraped the sky, their metal frames gleaming in the sunlight. Giant balloons in every color floated above the park, tethered to posts adorned with ribbons. Laughter, music, and the faint hum of machinery filled the air.
“Stick close, okay?” Gina said as we entered the gates, her hand gripping mine a little too tightly.
Mark rolled his eyes. “He’ll be fine, babe. It’s a park, not a war zone.”
Gina scowled but let go of my hand. I was free to explore, though I wasn’t entirely sure where to start. Mark immediately pulled Gina toward the biggest roller coaster, the Cyclone Inferno, leaving me to trail behind.
As we walked, I noticed how carefully designed everything was. The rides sparkled with fresh paint, and the carnival games seemed straight out of a movie. Yet, even in all the excitement, I couldn’t shake a strange feeling—a heaviness in the air, like something unseen was watching.
The first odd moment came near the carousel. While Gina and Mark waited in line for the roller coaster, I wandered over to the ornate ride. It was beautiful at first glance, with carved horses and golden poles that shimmered in the sun. But as I circled it, I noticed one of the horses had a cracked face, its painted features distorted into a grimace. Its single, hollow eye seemed to follow me.
“Hey, kid,” a raspy voice said behind me, making me jump.
I turned to see a janitor. He was an older man, his face weathered and pale, his uniform stained with grease. He held a mop, but he wasn’t using it. Instead, he stared at me with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
“You stick to the main rides, you hear? Don’t go wandering.”
I nodded, too startled to speak, and hurried back to Gina and Mark.
The Haunted House
As the afternoon wore on, we explored more of the park. Gina and Mark were inseparable, laughing as they went from one thrill ride to the next. I tried to keep up, but my eyes kept wandering to the edges of the park, where the shadows seemed darker. That’s when I saw the haunted house.
It wasn’t like the other attractions, which were bright and shiny. The haunted house was old, its wooden facade warped and faded. A crooked sign above the entrance read, “The House of Horrors.” Fake cobwebs draped over the doorway, and a pair of dusty skeletons flanked the entrance, their jaws open in silent screams.
“Let’s go in there!” I blurted out, pointing.
Gina frowned. “Are you kidding? That place looks like it’s about to fall apart.”
Mark smirked. “Scared, babe?”
“Of tetanus, maybe,” she shot back.
But Mark was already pulling her toward the entrance, and I followed close behind.
The inside was darker than I expected, with dim lights flickering overhead. The air was heavy, carrying a damp, earthy smell. The walls were lined with old photographs of grim-looking people in Victorian clothing. Some of the frames were cracked, the glass smeared with something that looked like dried blood.
“Creepy, huh?” Mark said, grinning.
As we moved deeper into the house, the floorboards creaked under our weight. Animatronic monsters popped out of corners, their jerky movements and distorted growls startling us. But there was something else—a sound that didn’t belong.
It was faint at first, like whispering. I thought it was part of the attraction, but the farther we went, the louder it got. It wasn’t coming from the speakers; it was coming from the walls.
“Do you hear that?” I whispered.
Gina paused, looking around. “Hear what?”
Mark chuckled. “Don’t freak yourself out, kid. It’s all fake.”
But I wasn’t so sure.
As we rounded a corner, we came to a room with a single chair in the center. Sitting on it was a mannequin dressed like a Victorian woman, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. The whispers grew louder, and I could swear the mannequin’s eyes moved.
“I’m done,” Gina said, grabbing Mark’s arm. “Let’s go.”
We hurried out, but as we left the house, I glanced back and saw something that made my blood run cold. In one of the upper windows, a figure stood watching us. It wasn’t part of the ride—it looked too real.
The Tragedy
As the sun set, the park took on a different tone. The cheerful music sounded warped, and the shadows seemed to stretch farther than they should. I stayed close to Gina and Mark as we made our way toward the exit. That’s when we heard the scream.
It was high-pitched and raw, cutting through the night like a blade. People around us froze, their laughter dying.
“What was that?” Gina whispered.
Mark grabbed her hand, and we followed the crowd toward the source of the sound. At the far edge of the park, near the carousel, a group of people had gathered. I pushed my way through and stopped dead.
A teenage girl lay on the ground, her clothes soaked in blood. Her eyes were wide open, frozen in an expression of terror. One hand was stretched out, her fingers curled as if trying to grasp something.
“Step back!” a security guard barked, but no one moved.
The police arrived within minutes, their flashing lights casting eerie shadows on the scene. Officers questioned witnesses, but no one had seen anything. “There’s no weapon,” one of them muttered to another. “What the hell could do this?”
The park closed immediately, and we were sent home. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the girl’s lifeless eyes, her hand reaching out for something—or someone.
The Aftermath
In the weeks that followed, Fun Land became the center of dark rumors. People whispered about the haunted house, claiming it was cursed. Some said the girl had gone in there before she died. Others believed the janitor was involved—he disappeared the same night.
Then there were the photos. A local reporter managed to snap pictures inside the haunted house before it was sealed off. In one of the images, taken in the room with the mannequin, there was something standing in the corner: a figure with hollow eyes, barely visible in the shadows.
By the following summer, Fun Land was abandoned. The rides rusted, the paint peeled, and the weeds grew tall. No one dared to go near it.
But sometimes, late at night, people swear they can still hear the carousel music drifting through the air.
And if you stand at the gates long enough, you might see a figure in the window of the haunted house, watching.
"The Black Hoodie":
I’ve always loved amusement parks. The energy, the laughter, and the smell of cotton candy mixed with popcorn always brought me back to being a carefree kid. By the summer of 2012, I was 19, and while I wasn’t a kid anymore, I still loved the thrill of a good ride. So when my best friend Sarah suggested a last-minute trip to the local amusement park, I was all in.
“Come on,” Sarah grinned, pulling me toward the ticket counter. “I read online they have a brand-new ride. It’s supposed to be insane.”
“Do you mean insane as in awesome or insane as in terrifying?” I asked, trying to gauge her tone.
“Both.” She laughed. “You’ll love it.”
We bought our tickets and walked through the gates just as the sun began to set. The park came alive under the glow of carnival lights, with the sound of rides clattering, kids screaming in delight, and music blaring from speakers.
For hours, we bounced from one ride to another, losing ourselves in the chaos. By 9 p.m., we had stuffed ourselves with greasy food and hit all the major attractions. Sarah checked her phone and smirked.
“Okay, time for the main event. The new ride. You ready?”
I groaned. “After all those chili fries? Ready might not be the word, but let’s do it.”
The ride, called “The Plunge,” was located at the edge of the park, past the Ferris wheel and food stalls. As we walked further, the noise of the crowd started to fade, replaced by the hum of overhead lights and the distant creak of metal rides.
“This part of the park feels...different,” Sarah muttered, glancing around.
“Yeah, kind of quiet,” I agreed, feeling a bit uneasy for the first time that night.
Finally, we reached the ride. It was a massive free-fall tower that seemed to touch the sky, with blinking lights outlining its structure. A small group of people stood in line. As we joined them, I noticed a man leaning against the railing nearby.
He was alone, wearing a black hoodie pulled over his head, and he seemed oddly still. His hands were buried in his pockets, and his face was partially hidden by the shadow of his hood. I wouldn’t have paid him much attention, except he wasn’t in line or watching the ride. He was watching us.
“Do you see that guy?” I whispered to Sarah.
She turned casually to look, then shrugged. “What about him?”
“He’s just...standing there. Watching.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “You’re paranoid. Maybe he’s waiting for someone.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, but the feeling didn’t go away.
We finally got on the ride. The operator, a bored-looking kid in his early 20s, gave us the safety rundown before strapping us in. As the ride began to climb, I caught another glimpse of the man. He was still standing there, and his head was tilted slightly upward, as if he were watching us ascend.
The drop was exhilarating—fast, stomach-turning, and everything I expected. But even as I screamed alongside Sarah, my mind kept drifting back to the man. Something about him didn’t sit right with me.
When the ride ended, we stepped off, laughing and wobbly-legged.
“Okay, that was worth it,” Sarah said. “Best ride of the night.”
“Yeah,” I replied half-heartedly, scanning the area. The man was gone.
As we made our way toward the exit, the park began to empty out. The crowds were thinning, and the once-bustling pathways now felt oddly barren. That’s when I saw him again.
The man in the black hoodie was walking a few feet behind a young couple. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, but his movements felt deliberate—his pace matched theirs, and he kept just enough distance to remain unnoticed.
“Sarah,” I said, grabbing her arm. “It’s him.”
“What? Where?”
I gestured subtly toward the couple. “He’s following them. Look.”
Sarah frowned, watching for a moment. “Maybe they’re together?”
“No,” I said firmly. “He’s trailing them. Look how he’s keeping back.”
We slowed our pace, unsure of what to do. The couple turned down a path leading to the parking lot, and the man followed.
“We can’t just leave them,” I whispered.
Sarah hesitated. “What do you want to do? Confront him?”
“No. But we can tell someone.”
We spotted a security guard near the Ferris wheel—a stocky man with a radio clipped to his belt.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice urgent. “There’s a man following a couple toward the parking lot. He’s been acting strange all night.”
The guard’s face hardened. “Where?”
I pointed toward the path. “They just went that way, a minute ago.”
He immediately radioed for backup and began walking briskly in that direction. Sarah and I followed, keeping a safe distance.
When we reached the parking lot, it was eerily quiet. Rows of dimly lit cars stretched into the darkness. The guard scanned the area with his flashlight.
Then we heard it—a muffled scream.
“Stay here,” the guard ordered, breaking into a run.
Ignoring him, Sarah and I followed at a distance, our hearts pounding.
We found them near the far end of the lot. The man in the hoodie had the young woman pinned against a car, his hand over her mouth. Her boyfriend was on the ground, holding his head and groaning.
“Hey! Let her go!” the guard bellowed, his flashlight beam landing squarely on the attacker.
The man froze for a moment before bolting into the darkness. The guard gave chase, but the man disappeared between the rows of cars.
Sarah and I ran to the couple. The woman was sobbing, and her boyfriend had blood streaming from a cut on his forehead.
“He came out of nowhere,” the boyfriend said, his voice shaky. “Hit me with something and grabbed her.”
More security guards arrived, and soon the police were on the scene. They took statements from all of us, but the man in the hoodie was never caught.
That night changed me. The bright lights and cheerful sounds of amusement parks now feel like a thin veneer, hiding the lurking dangers in the shadows. I still visit parks occasionally, but I’m always on edge, scanning the crowd for anyone who doesn’t seem to belong.
Because sometimes, the scariest things aren’t on the rides—they’re the people watching from the sidelines.
"Thrills and Terror":
It was the summer of 1982, and I had just turned 18. Action Park in Vernon, New Jersey, had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one. I’d heard the stories—the broken bones, the lawsuits, the whispers of deaths swept under the rug. But I was desperate for a summer job, and they were always hiring. Looking back, I should’ve realized that alone was a red flag.
The park was a chaotic blend of carnival energy and unbridled recklessness. On my first day, the manager, a wiry man with sunburned skin named Ron, handed me a bright red uniform shirt and a quick warning: "This place isn’t Disneyland. Keep your head down, do your job, and you’ll be fine. Probably."
Probably? The word stuck with me as I walked to my first post: the Alpine Slide.
The Alpine Slide was notorious, even by Action Park standards. Riders sat on small plastic sleds with a handbrake, hurtling down a narrow concrete track that twisted and turned along a steep hillside. The track was flanked by jagged rocks and the occasional patch of gravel, all of which seemed to beckon disaster. My supervisor, Tom, greeted me with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a half-hearted handshake. "Rule number one: don’t let ‘em go too fast. Rule number two: if they crash, don’t panic." He paused, exhaling a plume of smoke. "At least not where the customers can see you."
By mid-morning, I’d already seen two crashes. The first was a teenage girl who underestimated a sharp turn and flipped her sled. She walked away with a bloodied knee and a shattered ego. The second was a grown man who was drunk—or at least I hoped he was, given his inexplicable decision to stand on the sled as he launched down the track. He lasted about ten seconds before tumbling off, leaving a trail of red streaks on the unforgiving concrete.
But it was the boy, Mike, who haunted me most.
Mike couldn’t have been more than twelve. He showed up alone, clutching his ticket with sweaty hands. His oversized T-shirt and thick glasses made him look younger, more vulnerable. I asked him where his parents were, and he shrugged. "I don’t know. They’re somewhere." He sounded indifferent, but there was a hint of something else—maybe sadness? Or defiance?
"Listen," I said, kneeling down to his level. "The curves are tricky. Pull the brake if you feel like you’re going too fast, okay?"
He nodded, but his eyes flicked to the other kids zooming down the track. They were older, faster, louder. I should’ve stopped him, but I didn’t.
Mike’s sled started out steady, but halfway down, I could see the speed building. He ignored the brake entirely, his small frame bouncing dangerously on the sled. Then it happened. He hit a curve too hard, and the sled tipped. He flew off, rolling across the concrete like a rag doll.
I ran as fast as I could, my chest tight with fear. When I reached him, his glasses were shattered, his face scraped raw. Blood dripped from his elbows, and his arm was twisted in a way that made my stomach churn. "I’m fine," he mumbled, though tears streamed down his face. He wasn’t fine. We called an ambulance, but as they loaded him onto the stretcher, I noticed something odd: no one claimed him. No parents, no friends. Just Mike, disappearing into the back of the ambulance.
The following week, I was reassigned to the Tidal Wave Pool, or as the staff called it, "The Grave Pool." The water was icy cold, even in the blistering summer heat, and the waves—generated by an old, clunky machine—were unpredictable and relentless.
Linda, the head lifeguard, greeted me with a grim smile. "Stay sharp, rookie. This pool’s claimed more lives than the Alpine Slide. People underestimate it. They get tired, panic, and... well, you’ll see." She didn’t elaborate, but I noticed her gaze lingered on the deep end, where shadows danced beneath the surface.
My second day there, I saw the first real scare. A woman in her thirties got caught in the deep end during a particularly strong wave cycle. She flailed, her head bobbing above water for seconds at a time. "Help!" she screamed, though her voice was swallowed by the laughter and splashing around her.
I blew my whistle and dove in, my pulse pounding in my ears. The water was colder than I’d expected, and the waves felt like they were pulling me under as I swam toward her. When I reached her, she latched onto me, her nails digging into my arms. It took everything I had to keep us both afloat. Linda joined me, and together we dragged the woman to the edge. She collapsed on the concrete, gasping and shivering. "I thought I was going to die," she whispered. The look in her eyes—pure terror—stayed with me long after.
By the end of July, I was accustomed to the chaos—or so I thought. Then came the Tarzan Swing.
The Tarzan Swing was a simple attraction: riders grabbed a rope, swung out over a murky pond, and let go, plunging into the water. It looked fun, but it was deceptive. The pond was cold and deep, and the swing required perfect timing to avoid belly-flopping or worse.
One evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, a group of teenagers gathered at the swing. They were rowdy, egging each other on, each trying to outdo the last. One of them—a tall, muscular guy wearing a faded red swimsuit—decided to try a flip.
He grabbed the rope, swung out, and... hesitated. Instead of flipping or letting go, he clung to the rope, swinging back toward the platform. But his grip slipped, and he fell. The crowd gasped as he hit the water at an awkward angle, his head snapping back.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the surface of the water rippled, but he didn’t come up. The lifeguards sprang into action, diving into the murky depths. When they pulled him out, his face was pale, his body limp. Blood trickled from his nose.
"Call an ambulance!" someone shouted.
As they worked to revive him, the crowd fell silent. The fun, the laughter—it all vanished, replaced by an eerie stillness. The boy eventually coughed, sputtering to life, but his injuries were severe. I later heard he’d fractured his skull and would be in recovery for months.
By the time my last day at Action Park arrived, I felt like I’d aged years in a single summer. As I walked through the park one final time, I noticed things I hadn’t before: the cracks in the tracks, the frayed ropes, the eerie silence that lingered after the rides shut down for the night.
I found Tom near the Alpine Slide. He looked older, more worn. "This place," he said, shaking his head, "is cursed. It feeds on people’s thrill, but it always takes something in return."
As I drove away that evening, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Action Park wasn’t just dangerous—it was alive, and it thrived on chaos. Though the park shut down in 1996, its ghost lingers in the stories of those who survived it. For every laugh, there was a scream; for every thrill, a price to pay. And sometimes, that price was far too high.