The Halloween Project 2025 – Story 1: Ride the Lightning

 “Miriam, may I call you Miriam, Miss Steiner?” Alfred Temple, the manager of the amusement park, asked, semi-politely. His voice was tempered now with a hint of irritation. 

Temple continued, “We’ve been speaking for…” a glance at his watch, “almost 10 minutes now, and I do have some other work I have to attend to. How can I help you? Exactly?” 

“I know, I’m sorry to keep you,” Steiner replied, “Let me try to recap. “There was a tragedy here at Mountainside Amusement Park, what, seventy, seventy-five years ago?” 

”80, exactly 80. Coming up soon,” Temple said. 

”Exactly, yes,” Steiner agreed, as if she didn’t already know. Playing a bit dumb sometimes worked with people. “Could you just fill me in? The details?” 

”I’m sure you already have it all in your…” he gestured at the file in front of Steiner, “notes.” 

”I do. Yes, I do. All the articles from the newspapers at the time. Very informative, actually. Thunderbolt, it was called?” Dumb again. 

”Lightning Bolt,” Temple corrected. “Standard wooden roller coaster for the time. Actually, quite a bit smaller than at some of the bigger parks of the day. Coney Island, obviously. But apparently, it could move pretty fast for its time.” 

”And it…collapsed?’ Steiner asked. 

”Collapsed really wouldn’t be the right word as I understand it. Structural failure. Some wooden beams had been compromised either through wear and tear, poor timber, or a construction flaw.

When it reached the top…” 

”The crest of the lift hill,” now Steiner corrected. 

”Yes, the crest of the lift hill, that’s correct. That’s what it’s called in the business. You seem to know a lot about this, Miss Steiner,” he had given up on the ‘Miriam’. 

”I know quite a bit,” Steiner continued, “It went down that first slope at top speed, maybe only 30-35 miles per hour at the time, reached the first turn. Timbers gave way. All six cars, fully loaded, 24 people, shot off the track like a missile launch. 13 dead immediately. Two died later. Six on the ground injured. 11 survivors. Two paralyzed for life. A sum of money was paid out to each family.”

Temple picked up the story. “Yes, huge insurance payout, based on the ages of those who perished, how many members of each family, ongoing medical costs, that kind of thing. Not a lot by today’s standards, but quite a sum of money at the time. Thank the lord for that insurance. Almost killed the park as well.” 

”How did the park manage to stay open?” Steiner asked. 

“Well, it actually closed for two full years. The remainder of that season and two more. New investors took over. Kept the name.” 

”It was the very end of that season, right?” Steiner interrupted, “The day before Halloween. And since that time, even though the park stays open, a longer season now, all the way until Thanksgiving weekend in fact, but never on Halloween. I wonder why? Halloween is such a lucrative business nowadays.” 

”Respect for the victims of the tragedy, I imagine.” 

”Even now, 80 years later? Seems that time might have erased some of those memories.” 

”Miss Steiner,…Miriam”. He tried one last time. “That was long in the past. We’re a thriving amusement park. Attendance has gone up every year for the last five.” 

”I want to hear about the ghosts,” Steiner cut him off. 

A silence dropped in the room. 

”So that’s what this is about,” Temple finally said. The ghosts. " He took a deep breath and then continued, “There aren’t any. It’s a myth, a legend, built around the Lightning Bolt tragedy.” 

”Can you just tell me something about the myth? I’m writing a story here. It’s going to be in the Post. It’ll be free advertising. Your attendance will increase even more. It’s good business. Come on, give me something.” 

”Good-bye Miss Steiner,” Temple replied. 

A week later, on Halloween, Miriam scaled the wall of Mountainside, long after dark. As a young reporter she was determined. She carried her cell phone, a small flashlight, night goggles. Dressed in all black with a hoodie and face mask, she didn’t know what she wanted, but she wanted something more. The story was too good. Miriam had checked out the park several times before. She knew where the security cameras were posted and did her best to stay obscure, in the shadows, out of lens sight. 

Heading for the heart of the park, she neared the old site where the Lightning Bolt erupted 80 years ago, now a green swath of grass. She settled onto a park bench, quieted her heart with a few deep breaths and waited. Within the hour, she fell asleep, maybe for hours. A slight mist, perhaps a fog, settled in over the lawn. A ratcheting sound, muffled, like an undertone rose from the earth. Miriam straightened abruptly, eyes snapping open. Even fainter, the sounds of sobs seemed to cry from afar. 

Then a woman crossed the grass slowly from left to right. She wore a plaid top with a pleated skirt. Her hair appeared matted with dark streaks of liquid. She was missing an arm. Another figure emerged. This one stumbled on a leg so crushed and deformed, dragging the mangled limb behind, that it seemed incapable of supporting a staggering body. Others appeared. A man missing the top third of his head. A torso with no legs pulling itself in lurching tugs across the ground. A teenager holding what appeared to be a foot in one hand. An older man with a large piece of metal protruding from his chest. Low guttural moaning chorused to Steiner. She never moved, only waited. Watching. 

And then they turned. First one, then another. In their sorrow, pain and history, they noticed her. And began to move toward her. 

Steiner froze, knowing this was impossible. These images weren’t real; they were visions, hallucinations, dreams, or more likely nightmares. Not ghosts. “Wake up,” she told herself, “Wake up!” They centered on her, moving in stumbling diagonals toward the bench. Emerging from the foggy darkness, the girl stopped a few feet from Miriam. The others followed suit. The woman turned her head, and the minuscule light reflected off the eye hanging on her cheek. She extended the detached arm she was holding, palm up, not a handshake but an invitation. 

In a voice that gurgled, she rasped, “Want to take a ride on the Lightning Bolt?”