By james art “Has anyone been to this before?” Ryan Solistad, our guide for the evening, asks shortly before we enter the forest.
No one raises their hand.
“Okay,” Solistad says, “some things you should know. First: clowns won’t touch you.
next to me INDIThe staff photographer, Angelica, presses her fingertips to her temples as if warding off a headache. About 20 of us are huddled at the mouth of a trail leading to Eno’s West Point, waiting to go on the Creepy Clown Walk, a seasonal walk organized by Durham Parks and Recreation.
Contraband is not normally allowed in Eno parks, but tonight White Claws and Ponysaurus beer are available for purchase. Political participation is also encouraged according to the Say Yes to Bonds! flyers available.
“The way this all started was that a few years ago we had a flashlight scavenger hunt for kids,” says Solstad, who works for the parks department. “We were like, ‘Wouldn’t it be weird if there were a bunch of clowns in the woods?’ So now there are a bunch of clowns in the forest.
An online calendar listing offers a more dramatic backstory — something involving a clown car that crashed into the Eno River, the occupants of which never recovered. Since then, the listing has stated that “clowns may be seen” at West Point one night a year.
Tonight is tonight. The walking conditions are great. The air is cold and clear, and the moon, bright and waning, rises above the trees like a crooked searchlight. Unfortunately, Angelica just realized she left her camera battery at home – a first in her career, she told me. Maybe some things are better left unphotographed after all.
I haven’t been to West Point this late at night in at least a decade. The last time was for one of Dave Owen’s famous night floats on the river, where a copperhead lunged off the trail at a friend’s parent. I wonder if this walk will even come close to that.
There’s already something almost discouraging about the no-touch rule; I don’t necessarily want to be grabbed by a clown, but I want to feel like it could happen. I am an adult registering for an adult-only haunted event. If I walk out of this forest without my heart beating, do I even exist?
“The clowns are a bit in the mood tonight,” Solistad says, continuing to speak. “They are sad, they are angry. Just be prepared.
Angelica shot me a look.
“Follow the balloons,” Solistad finished, pointing to a red balloon tied to a branch at the entrance to the trail.
I raise my hand. “Are we moving a pack?” It’s not meant to be funny, but it makes two women nearby giggle.
“No,” Salistad says dryly. “You will go individually, alone, blindfolded.”
Then he smiles. “You go with the groups you came with,” he says.
For the most part, clowns don’t talk. They materialize on the trail like strange mushrooms, crying or sulking or watching us with blank amusement. There are few scares or sudden movements – mostly just tears and looks.
After a few minutes we come upon a beret-wearing clown furiously working on a tripod. Her face is streaked with greasepaint.
“Who are you?” I ask, as I must be here for journalistic purposes. “What’s your story?”
She doesn’t answer, but hands me a piece of paper that says ‘To my muse’ before she melts back into the shadows.
The path unfolds. Next comes a clown with a trombone, blasting mournful horns in the darkness. Then clown in a kayak down the river, paddling closer to shore as we pass.
“You can’t touch me!” I find myself calling each clown, less as a warning and more because it feels weird not to acknowledge them. As I suspected, clowns aren’t that scary.
Then suddenly we are no longer on the trail. Memories flash like lightning: afternoon hikes where the trails twist in unexpected ways, every scene of The Blair Witch Projectcopperhead writhing in the air—
“This way,” Angelica says, clucking and pointing to a balloon ahead. I hang back for a second, my palms sweating. Finally, the real fear I came for. Clowns may follow the rules, but the forest doesn’t.
As we move forward, a soft melody wafts through the trees: the music of an ice cream truck. We find ourselves face to face with a clown with a caricature of a dork.
“You can’t touch me,” I tell him.
Without a word, he hands me an ice cream cone filled with pine needles.
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