Call me sentimental, but I miss the old hayride.
Years ago I lived not far from SpookyWorld, the Halloween theme park that opened on a Berlin farm in 1991. The park expanded for several years thereafter, until it got run out of town by a mob of locals wielding pitchforks and fire-code citations. In its heyday, the signature attraction was a wagon ride through fields decked out with stage sets, each depicting some variety of monster, mayhem, or mutilation scene. C-list celebrities (Alice Cooper, Tiny Tim, Elvira) roamed the grounds at night, zombie-like effigies of authentic Hollywood stars. It was all great campy fun.
One October I invited some friends to join me there. Julian, their 8-year-old, sat beside me on the wagon. Somewhere around the Toxic Avenger exhibit, I began thinking this was not a good idea. Julian stayed silent during most of the ride, although I could sense his mounting anxiety as unmerrily we rolled along past rotting corpses and creaking coffins. When Leatherface bolted out of the woods with chainsaw in hand, that was it. Julian yelped with fright, convinced his arm was about to be hacked off.
I was traumatized, too, less by the buzzing saw than by having subjected a sensitive second-grader to a PG-13 frightfest. That said, I am embarrassingly squeamish when it comes to horror movies, especially any so-called slasher film. I’d no sooner sit through “Texas Chainsaw Massacre’’ than volunteer in a hospital trauma room. If gore is involved, I’m gone.
I even managed to steer clear of “Psycho,’’ the Hitchcock film that launched the slasher genre, although its star, Anthony Perkins, was a family friend and about as gentle a soul as one could ever meet. The first few summers after the film’s release, Tony often took me golfing at a pitch-and-putt course on the Outer Cape. We played at night, under the lights, and I never fully understood the startled looks people directed his way. I figured he was a well-known Hollywood actor and let it go at that. Years later, I finally saw “Psycho’’ and immediately understood. Norman Bates with a 9-iron, coming your way. Hide the women and children!
Julian and his parents eventually forgave me (I think). Meanwhile, SpookyWorld went on to endure more deaths and rebirths than the vampire Lestat. Shut down a decade ago, it rose from the grave in Foxborough for a few seasons, then closed once more and auctioned off its prop and memorabilia collection (a Charles Manson likeness for $850 - who wouldn’t want one for the foyer?). This year it re-re-re-opened in southern New Hampshire, boasting several new attractions rated PG-13 - i.e., not for easily spooked grade-schoolers.
Having a teenager at home on whom I’m unafraid to experiment, I naturally recruited her and a horror-movie-loving friend to rate the new park for chills and thrills. They both agreed, perhaps figuring it would get them in the proper Halloween mood. (We left the 9-year-old at home. Once bitten, etc.)
Our first stop was “Sleep Stalkers,’’ a walk-through “hospital’’ for haunted insomniacs. Ten steps inside, I began thinking this was not a good idea. My 13-year-old was visibly shuddering as she passed the check-in desk. Her companion looked even less comfortable, digging her fingernails into my elbow and moaning in anticipation of frights to come. When the desk clerk unexpectedly sprang to life, both girls lost it.
“Are you scared, little girl?’’ a blood-stained nurse said to my daughter, stalking us as we stumbled through the maze of hospital corridors. Mark that down as a rhetorical question. Because by that time, the shrieking had begun long before we’d turned the next corner to see what fresh horrors awaited.
No more, both girls said upon exiting, we’re good. No more? The “Buried Alive’’ exhibit? I’d have to experience that claustrophobe’s nightmare by myself. Ditto for “3-D Freakshow’’ and “Nightfeeders.’’ On my way into “Raven’s Claw,’’ I followed a young couple making their way toward the exhibit entrance. The woman kept glancing back. When we reached the front gate, she turned around and said nervously, “Are you part of the show?’’
No, I said. I’d seen that look before, though. If nothing else, it made me miss the old hayride.
Joseph P. Kahn can be reached at jkahn@globe.com. 
