Final Ride: The Ashwood Park Incident

 Ashwood Park was supposed to be the pride of southern West Virginia — a sprawling, family-owned theme park nestled between two wooded ridges, complete with cotton candy stalls, animatronic fairy tale villages, and its crown jewel: The Devil’s Whirl — a towering roller coaster that twisted through the forest like a spine.

It opened in 1987 with fireworks and fanfare. By 1992, it was shut down for good.

The incident happened on a foggy October afternoon, during their annual “FrightFest.” Twenty people boarded The Devil’s Whirl for what would be its final run. Just as the cars crested the highest peak, something went wrong. Bolts sheared off like soft metal, restraints popped open, and the lead car detached mid-descent.

All twenty riders were flung into the woods — their bodies torn apart by steel and trees. Search teams found pieces of them scattered nearly half a mile from the wreckage. What they didn’t find was the ride’s black box camera footage. Park owners claimed it had been stolen. Some said it was destroyed on purpose.

Ashwood Park was shuttered within a week. The rides were left to rot. The forest slowly crept in, swallowing roller coasters, food stands, and rusted mascots with wide, chipped grins.

Thirty years later, no one dared go near it. But two film students from Charleston — Erin and Lexi — decided Ashwood was the perfect setting for their documentary on abandoned Americana. They posted teaser clips online: drone shots of the crumbling gates, photos of decapitated carousel horses, and one chilling image of The Devil’s Whirl, half-consumed by vines, its track broken like a snapped bone.

They entered the park on June 6th.

They were never seen again.

Their last known footage was uploaded automatically through a live-feed drone. It started as expected — giggling, excited voices, shaky flashlight footage, the girls narrating over scenes of ruin. But around midnight, things changed.

Lexi’s voice went quiet. She stared off into the trees, swearing she saw “someone watching from the coaster tracks.” Erin laughed it off. Until they both heard it: the sound of metal groaning. Like a ride powering on.

That was impossible.

The camera picked up the flicker of lights in the distance. Ride lights. Blinking red and orange, glowing softly through the mist. A familiar jingle played — warped and dragging like a record melting in the sun.

And then they heard screaming.

Not distant. Not imagined. Real, human screaming — dozens of voices, rising all at once, like a crowd on a drop.

The girls approached The Devil’s Whirl. The entrance gate stood wide open, though no one had touched it. The turnstile spun slowly on its own.

Lexi whispered, “The track’s fixed.”

Erin responded, “That wasn’t there before.”

The camera shook. Lexi gasped. “There are people in the cars.”

The drone zoomed in. Blurry shapes. Faces that didn’t blink. Eyes too dark. Mouths gaping open, stuck mid-scream. The coaster cars were rolling — slowly, creaking up the first hill.

The girls began to back away.

But then the camera caught something behind them. A tall figure in a mascot costume. A faded red devil with yellowed fangs and empty sockets where eyes should’ve been. It didn’t move. It just stood, one hand outstretched, palm up.

The feed cut out.

Their campsite was found days later, untouched. Car still there. Backpacks full. Cameras gone.

But on June 13th — one week after their disappearance — the Ashwood Park website, which had been dead for decades, briefly came online. It displayed one thing: a grainy photo of the girls standing at the top of the Devil’s Whirl, arms raised as if mid-ride.

Only… they weren’t smiling.
Their faces were pale. Eyes wide.
And behind them, the devil mascot loomed — one hand on each of their shoulders.