FEATURING FOUR TERRIFYING HAUNTED ATTRACTIONS, THE SPIRIT REALM, CARNIVAL GAMES, AND MORE…
After months of renovation, the Archdiocese of New York reached the final phases of a plan to open a new orphanage in Big Flats. They called it a sanctuary for lost children, a place where wandering souls could finally find a home. But whispers soon spread like rot in the walls. The orphanage was said to be run by former members of St. Dutcher’s Orphanage up north— a place long shrouded in scandal. There had been accounts of cruelty… and darker acts no one dared write down.
In one cryptic report, it was said St. Dutcher’s took in children by the dozens— yet none were ever seen leaving. Not playing outdoors. Not adopted. Not even buried. Curiosity led to countless investigations… all of them ending the same way: unanswered questions and missing investigators. Then, one autumn, St. Dutcher’s went silent. Its halls emptied overnight. No nuns. No orderlies. No children. Only locked doors and cold beds.
So when construction began in Big Flats, locals wondered: Had the Order uprooted and moved south… or had something else come with them?
They called the new place The Orphan House. A grand Victorian home with iron gates and stained-glass windows glowing soft and warm— from a distance. But up close, the windows are black. And the warmth is gone. Some say the children’s souls never left St. Dutcher’s at all. Others say they followed their caretakers here, still bound to them… still waiting.
And on cold nights, when the fog rises thick, you can hear soft lullabies drifting from the broken chimneys, and the pitter-patter of tiny feet just beyond the threshold. No one ever sees them. But they see you.
The owner—perhaps not believing the stories whispered about Tagslyvania— decided to build a motel for those adventurous souls like him, seeking to uncover the truth for themselves. They called it Motel 666.
But what they found within its walls… were unspeakable horrors. One fateful autumn night, as the fog rolled in again, something came with it— something unseen… and hungry. By dawn, the motel stood silent. Every guest. Every staff member. Even the owner himself… gone.
What the few rescuers found inside was beyond comprehension— rotting bodies locked in rooms with no signs of struggle, bloody handprints smeared across cracked mirrors, and whispers in the vents that spoke in voices not their own. Some said the guests had gone mad, gruesomely turning on each other in a frenzy of blood. Others believed something darker had seeped into their minds, twisting their will until they became puppets for the fog.
Today, if you dare to step inside, you can still hear the soft shuffle of unseen feet echoing down the hollow hallways… The guests who never got the chance to check out. The owners who tried to run, but never made it past the lobby. Each room still holds a story. A violent, cursed story that will play itself out again the moment you open the door.
We can guarantee you’ll witness these horrors once you check in… but we can’t guarantee you’ll be able to check out.
They say Jerkus Circus was once the greatest show on Earth. Founded in the early 1900s by the flamboyant Carlyle Jerkus Esquire III, The traveling spectacle dazzled the world with death-defying acts, towering tents striped in crimson and gold, and a cavalcade of wonders no living soul could explain.
But after the Great Depression, the circus began to crumble. Crowds thinned. Wagons emptied. The laughter faded. Desperate to save his life’s work, Carlyle made a deal— a pact with the Devil himself. In exchange for eternal fame and fortune, he signed his name in blood beneath the Devil’s mark. And the Devil delivered. The circus bloomed with new life— crowds returned, the coffers overflowed, and the performances grew more impossible by the day.
But Carlyle… tried to break his contract. And the Devil does not forgive betrayal. The Jerkus name was cursed. Their performers became hollow-eyed wraiths, trapped forever beneath the big top’s shadow, condemned to wander from house to house collecting the souls of children in a Cavalcade of Horror.
For decades, the cursed circus appeared and vanished like smoke— arriving without warning, leaving nothing behind but torn posters and empty shoes until one fateful autumn… when the Jerkus wagons rolled into Big Flats, New York. They pitched their tents right on the edge of the wetlands— not knowing the fog was already creeping toward them.
By sunrise, the circus was gone. No tents. No wagons. No performers. Just empty earth and a faint calliope tune drifting through the mist. Some say the circus was swallowed whole by the fog. Others swear it still performs deep inside the mist, its ringmaster still grinning, still collecting souls to pay off his eternal debt.
So if you hear carnival music in the distance on a windless night… run. Because Jerkus Circus has come back to town— and this time, they’re looking for you.
Long ago, nestled deep in the valley near the river flats, there stood a thriving little village. Known simply as the hamlet of Big Flats, it was a modest but proud community—families, farmers, tradesmen, and a church that tolled its bells every dusk.
But one autumn night, just before All Hallows’ Eve, the hamlet vanished. No warning, no survivors. Travelers who once passed through found only an empty clearing, as if the village had never existed. Over the years, rumors spread: some claimed the townsfolk had made a dark pact, others whispered of a curse born from betrayal, and a few spoke of shadows that came with the fog and took what they desired.
For decades, nothing stirred where The Hamlet once stood… until one fog-heavy night, nearly a century later. On the eve of October’s end, the Hamlet returned. But it was not the same. The buildings stood rotten and broken, their walls groaning as though they remembered their doom. The streets were empty, but watchers swore they could hear screams carried in the mist, echoing from long-dead throats.
Now, The Lost Hamlet lingers in the veil between worlds, appearing only when the fog is thick and the moon is hidden. Those who wander too close find themselves drawn into its rotting streets. Some escape, pale and broken, speaking of ghostly figures watching from shattered windows. Most are never seen again—swallowed by the Hamlet, becoming part of its cursed soul.
Step beyond the veil… if you dare.
At the Spirit Realm, our traveling diviners, tarot readers, and mystics await to peer into your past, present, and fate yet to come
Dare to walk through the mind-bending Vortex, test your skills at our Creepy Carnival Games, and refuel your mortal shell at the Bone Appétit Café — if you still have an appetite.
