I’ve been listening to podcasts where people share their best spooky stories. I felt wistful listening to these stories because I have none of my own — nothing remotely spooky has ever happened to me. Sure, I’ve witnessed strange and inexplicable phenomena, but these can usually be explained away because I was severely sleep-deprived or participating in an endurance race and probably hallucinating. I already have a runaway imagination prone to catastrophic visualizations, and recognizing this about myself means I can’t trust anything my mind conjures. But then I thought — there was that one time in the Haunted Forest, and I know it really happened because my friend saw it too.
The Haunted Forest was one of the many haunted houses that gained enormous popularity in Utah during the 1990s. The premise of these haunted houses was a warehouse or perhaps an abandoned big-box store lit only by black lights and blinding strobes. The decorations were usually sparse, limited to fake cobwebs and broken furniture. Actors dressed up in scary costumes and prowled the corridors, screaming, swinging their arms, and occasionally blasting air horns. Teens or misguided adults on blind dates waited in long lines in the October cold so they could pay $15 — which is like $100 in 2022 inflation dollars — just to stumble around for a half hour and pretend to be scared.
Most of these establishments were fairly bland, but my friends and I made it our mission to visit every last one in the Salt Lake and Utah valleys. Our most anticipated was the Haunted Castle in Provo. We knew it by its older, much less politically correct name — The Insane Asylum. The spook alley was a fundraiser for the Utah State mental hospital. It was located in the cobblestone amphitheater — the hospital was founded in 1885 — with a cast largely made up of residents. We were thrilled by the prospect of being scared by “real-life psychos.”
Yes, I know, it’s a terrible stigma and I’m sorry to bring it up here. The culture of the 90s packs a lot of cringy baggage. But I also have to admit that we were traumatized by our experience at the Haunted Castle. These attractions often closed out with a “Chainsaw Massacre guy” that wielded a real chainsaw (apparently lacking a chain) to chase people out the door. It was usually a short-lived, mildly thrilling experience. But the Haunted Castle turned up the intensity to a full boil. As my group of four friends moved to exit the grounds, the Chainsaw Guy instead chased us into a corner, where we bunched together while screaming at the top of our lungs. The person wouldn’t let us leave. They moved in closer as we pressed into a tight bundle. I could feel the person’s breath through their hockey mask. My friend later admitted she peed her pants. Suddenly I felt a sharp nick against my jeans. The person actually touched me with the (thankfully blunt) saw. I screamed out a loud obscenity — unusual for me when I was 17 — that startled the Chainsaw Guy back enough that we could escape.
And yes, I believe this was assault and completely inappropriate for a spook alley … at the same time, it was also what we had paid for. There is a lot to unpack about 90s culture. I’m glad that on some level, the Gen Z’ers have reached a more enlightened understanding.
The Haunted Forest was the last establishment on our list. Two friends, traumatized by Chainsaw Guy, refused to join us at any more spook alleys. My friend Liz and I were committed to checking off all of them, even the Haunted Forest, which others at school had warned us was “super lame.” This haunted house was one of the few that was entirely outdoors. Located west of I-15 in Utah Valley, I believe the location was an orchard during the summer — I remember a lot of uniformly sized trees and a pitiful attempt at a hay bale maze. The actors were few and far between and mostly just skulked around from a safe distance. The entire “forest” was so poorly lit that we could barely see each other, let alone any of the props. The place earned a few extra points for being outdoors in a particularly dark corner of American Fork, but it wasn’t scarier than wandering our own suburban streets in the middle of the night. The kids at school were right. This was boring.
We were half asleep when we wandered into a barn. At the entrance were a few more hay bales and cobwebs that indicated this was part of the spook alley. But there were no lights inside and no indication that it was possible to exit the other side. As we groped through utter darkness, Liz wondered aloud if we were actually supposed to be in here.
Suddenly, blinding headlights burst toward us as the wail of a semi-truck horn echoed through the hollow interior of the barn. A semi was barreling toward us — we could see the grill, the bumper, tires spinning through a cloud of dust and hay. We both froze like proverbial deer in real headlights, then I felt the sharp fingernail grip of Liz’s hand on my arm as she yanked me toward the entrance of the barn. We sprinted through the orchard at top speed, spitting and gasping as we escaped to the parking lot.
“Holy (long string of obscenities)” I gasped when we finally believed we were safe. “That was like a real semi. I’ve never seen anything look so real.”
Liz nodded in stunned agreement. Reeling from adrenaline, we turned to other people still waiting in line.
“Whatever you do, don’t go in the barn. There’s this truck. It’s so scary!”
One of the workers standing at the entrance interrupted us. “What are you talking about? What truck?”
In rapid-fire exposition, we shared what happened.
“In the barn?” he asked with confusion in his tone. “There’s nothing in the barn. It’s closed.”
“No, the truck! The truck! It was so loud! So real! How did you do that?” I pleaded. I had to know.
He again shook his head. “There’s no truck.”
Convinced the Haunted Forest employee was gaslighting us, we asked a few others exiting the orchard if anyone had gone in the barn. A few mentioned they peeked inside the building, but no one had even heard the ghost truck, let alone nearly been run over by it. Liz and I were flabbergasted. How was this possible? Later at school, we asked anyone who had been to the Haunted Forest if they’d seen the ghost truck. Again, no one had.
Both Liz and I were shaken enough by the notion of an actual ghost truck that we didn’t bring it up again. Still, to this day, I wonder …
I have a major soft spot for haunted houses!!! But I can never seem to find friends to go with me ... Patrice