A Halloween reflection on fear, laughter, and the art of getting unstuck
The weekend ended in laughter, mud, and mild chaos—the usual trio of any family adventure worth remembering. It was Fright Night at Walibi Holland, a name I still hear as Six Flags in my head, nostalgia refusing to update its firmware.
From ten in the morning till six, the park belonged to children. After six, though, the lights dimmed and the monsters clocked in. “Recommended sixteen and up,” the website said. We read it, nodded like responsible adults, and went anyway.
Our group of six—two sets of parents and two brave little girls, seven and eight—had already dismissed last year’s “kids’ forest” as too tame. This time, we upgraded to the real deal: one haunted walkthrough. “Let’s just try one,” we said, with the same misplaced optimism people use when they say “just one episode.”
Within ten steps, our daughter whispered, “Papa, I’m scared.” She wasn’t crying, but her voice was small. “Stay between us,” I told her. “Head on my back. Remember, they’re actors. None of it’s real.”
She did. We walked on—a little sandwich of fear and love—and when we came out, everyone was fine. She even smiled.
Would I recommend it for under-twelves? No. Twelve and up, maybe. Fourteen feels right. There’s a reason for the rating—and it’s not about trauma, it’s about readiness. Still, I couldn’t find much parent-to-parent advice online. So here it is, on record: don’t do it too early. The magic of fear is in choice; not in force.
Getting Stuck, Getting Out
Later that night, real horror struck—not in the haunted house, but in the parking field. Rain-soaked grass. Electric vehicle. No traction. An automatic car in mud is a philosopher’s problem: you can’t control the force, only the finesse. Within seconds, I was stuck, wheels spinning, battery humming in vain.
Help arrived—strangers who still stop for headlights in distress. Together, we found an iron fence gate, slid it under the front wheels, counted off like DJs: one, two, three—push. Momentum, not muscle, freed us.
There’s a quiet metaphor there, somewhere between fear and friction. Sometimes you don’t need more power; just the right rhythm.
The Postmortem (and the Escape)
Sunday was softer: family dinner, my wife’s cooking, laughter over One Night Werewolf and Secret Hitler. It’s funny how innocence and irony coexist in the same sentence when your seven-year-old asks, “Papa, can we play Secret Hitler?”
We ended the weekend with more laughter than fear—which, for Halloween, feels like victory. And as for momentum? It’s Monday now. The mud’s washed off, but the lesson lingers:
Parenting, like driving an EV out of a muddy field, is about small pushes, good company, and just enough courage to move again when you’re stuck.
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