Night terrors

Before we go any further, let me just unequivocally state: Six Pines is not for the weak.

I was so terrified my mind has effectively erased the entire experience.

I shall do my best to give you a comprehensive, cohesive review of the night my friend and I visited, but please forgive the lack of detail.

What you are about to read are snatches of memories, dragged kicking and screaming from the depths of my fear-addled brain, which is, even as I type, trying to block all attempts of retrieval.

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Six Pines Haunted Attraction’s Extreme Fear by Night: A New Level of Terror is an experience that well and truly exceeds its promise to push the boundaries of fear.

Before my visit, the only other Halloween events I’d been to was Boo at the Zoo and when I reluctantly accompanied members of my family to the Spirit Halloween store.

It’s safe to say I’m not someone who actively seeks out scary situations.

It was a different matter in my early youth, when I devoured R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps and M.D. Spenser’s Shivers horror series.

I delved into gothic tales of Edgar Allen Poe, spent nights feverishly turning the pages of terrifying Stephen King tomes and spent far longer than necessary poring over Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery.

But as I’ve aged (and aged I have, which is perhaps the real horror story here), my appetite for gore has subsided.

There are more than enough horrors taking place in the world daily; I really don’t need to go looking elsewhere to be scared.

However, my compulsion to write often clouds my judgment, and thus I found myself joining the queue at Six Pines, the month-long Halloween attraction in the RM of Rosser, four kilometres north of the Perimeter Highway on Sturgeon Road.

Every October without fail for the last 27 years, the interactive theatrical haunted house experience makes an appearance on the 45-acre Thevenot farm where the family — mom Judy, dad James and children Tessa and Thomas — pull out all the stops in their attempt to make visitors scream in terror as they flee from the 75 menacing ghosts, ominous ghouls and disturbing spirits inhabiting the three buildings on the property.

I took my friend Cayleigh Porter, 39, with me. She’s someone who doesn’t scary easily and truly enjoys watching horror movies and true crime television programs.

The line to enter Terror Train, the first of three nightmarish realms, was the longest of the evening; it took nearly half an hour before it was our turn to face the creatures inside.

The train’s theme changes annually — this year, it’s the realm of Evermore, the shadowy sinister world of Wednesday Addams.

We were advised to walk single file, hands on the shoulders of the person in front, so Porter stepped up — we’d voted to take turns — and I, immediately forgetting what I had just been told, clutched her arm in the darkness, incapable of making any sort of decision other than to meekly follow her lead.

Bear in mind that this is not the kind of experience where you simply walk in and observe horrifying sets.

Nope.

This is very much a performance-driven, interactive haunt, which means all the ghosts and ghouls who creep up behind you, popping unexpectedly around corners, suddenly appearing from nowhere… all of them can, and do, engage with visitors,

They come right up to your face, tell you they’re lonely, invite you to stay the night so you can play with them, all the while smiling viciously at you.

And if you think that’s bad, think again; they’re all allowed to touch you.

Now imagine the most unsettling dead-eyed ghost of a small child coming right up to your elbow and laying its tiny, cold fingers upon your cheek.

Luckily Porter and I, secure in our cowardice, had taken advantage of the Chicken Passes on sale at the door. We shelled out $4 each for wristbands that came with a luminous green glow-in-the-dark necklace to signal we would rather not be touched, thank you very much.

Porter and I managed to squeeze beside each other, hands clasped tightly we made our way through the meandering corridors as walls closed in and ceilings lowered, causing us to stoop through the crooked doorways and down winding alleys.

We walked through a narrow room, which was quiet at first, before a staccato of thumps caused the walls to vibrate menacingly.

Those of a nervous disposition, beware: there are times when you are rendered almost blind as what little light there is obscured by thick smoke.

We dashed through the train and made it in one piece, our glowstick necklaces beaming brightly as we headed to Barn of Doom with its Sixth Night at Freddy’s theme — back from last year by popular demand.

We joined the queue and in what seemed to be less than 25 minutes, were at the head of the line.

The horror that awaits you in the barn is the slow-burning kind, a nameless dread that blossoms as you climb up the barn stairs and towards a door up which you have been instructed to knock.

It took all my willpower to not rush back down those stairs.

When the door finally opened I was a jangle of frayed nerves.

As it was my turn to lead, I grabbed hold of Porter’s hand and tried to casually breeze past the horrible creature towering over me, grinning ominously as it ushered us into the darkness and towards an array of utterly repulsive, highly reprehensible characters.

We strode into a room with empty metal cages lined up against the walls, lured by the relative calm before various ghastly beings leapt out from dark corners, clawing at our faces, hissing “chickenssssss, chickenssssssss” to shame us for our lack of courage.

We quickened the pace, doing our best to avert our gaze from the horrific beings around every corner as sibilant whispers continued to haunt our steps.

Emerging from the darkness, I contemplated skipping the final scare of the night, but Porter’s reassurance, coupled with repeated reminders that it was her turn to lead, got me through the doors of Carnevil Haunted House and straight into the embrace of the awaiting clowns.

Upon seeing our glowing necklaces, they immediately drew back, squawking “Cowardly chickens” loudly at us as we hurried through the bloody walls, dogged by the grotesque clowns cavorting creepily beside us.

It was here where my heart felt like it might stop, trapped in a tunnel-like enclosure where red lights strobed rhythmically, rendering me almost blind.

Grabbing Porter’s arm, I scooted closer, trying my best not to scream, as she led us out into the blessed night, leaving behind the troupe of misfits intent on destroying my dignity.

Standing outside, shell-shocked and glassy-eyed, we made our way to the snack truck and proceeded to almost mechanically shove cinammon-sugared mini doughnuts into our mouths, both of us barely able to say a word.

Reader, it was the worst experience of my entire life.

I mean this in the best possible way, but I loathed every second of it and would never ever, ever, ever visit again.

You have been warned.

av.kitching@freepress.mb.ca