Terror In The Woods At Caravan Farm

October 25th, 2026 – Armstrong, BC

Last night marked the 21st annual Walk of Terror at Caravan Farm Theatre, located just inside the Township of Spallumcheen. For 37 years now, Caravan Farm Theatre has been a diamond in the Agricultural Land Reserve and there is something very significant about being a diamond in the ALR. Other theatres, generally, aren’t mucking out barns between shows. Caravan Farm Theatre is an active, working farm, prioritizing land stewardship and integrating the rural landscape into its identity. Using horses to pull sleighs for winter shows and holding performances across its open fields and forests, Caravan Farm Theatre is heralded as a national treasure and we agree.

On arrival, it is immediately apparent that this is not like other events. For starters, they take security very seriously. When first entering the site, you are directed to your parking stall by intimidating assets dressed in red on horseback. These red riders, while seemingly friendly, are not to be trifled with. You might be able to push a regular parking attendant around and ignore their instructions; try that with a parking attendant on horseback, and you might end up with a couple of hoofs through your windshield.

We followed all instructions given, parked the News Truck, and joined the mob at the gates. This was no Black Friday gatecrash, though a similarly impenetrable barrier kept the voracious crowds back.

As unsettled and excited as the crowd may have been, we all contained ourselves, for another trio of red figures—with what we could only assume was some sort of pagan symbolism attached to their headgear—closely watched the gates.

These were beings of importance, paired with a particularly tall gentleman who clearly had no aversion to fire. We know exactly how men like this become so conditioned to fire.

As usual, anyone who seems a little bit taller than normal deeply offends our “Photographer.” We’re always having to remind him that height doesn’t matter—it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

After we calmed “Photography” down, we made our way to the beginning of the Terror Walk. Having been here once, twice, maybe a dozen times, we knew the rule: don’t lag around, there will be time for that later; get in line before the line forms. Lucky for us, as soon as we did, the entry coordinator instructed everyone to line up right behind us. Obviously, we were veterans of terrified walking, so the gate regulator skipped instructions and offered us an opportunity to gaze into his eyes. Always eager to stare deeply into the soul of a face-painted stranger, the entire team jumped at the chance. In a casual, intense moment where seconds ticked like seasons, our team left an impression on the doorman. We know he will forever be haunted by the memory of our 12-person news crew, asking himself: Do I really remember that happening?

With the gatekeeper effectively pacified by an intense round of looking at each other in silence, we made our way up a small hill and through a wicker portal. Inside was what seemed like a madness only Poe himself could dream up, only to wish he hadn’t. We passed a man whose every limb was bound by an angelic white ring. Was he truly trapped by this ring, or was it that the ring was protecting him from venturing towards the ghouls in the dark?

Perhaps, as we embarked on this trail in the night, this would be the last safe space we would see until our journey was complete. With the ideas in our minds burning as bright as a Kinshirian hoop shines, we arrived at the desk of a man who also seemed to have one too many ideas about what was going on this evening. Putting thought to page in rapid-fire succession, he committed an act that truly horrified everyone on the news crew: he was just discarding ideas on the ground.

The news crew, unable to witness any more blasphemy, got the heck out of there. No idea, however ridiculous, should be cast aside without careful consideration before being catalogued in the ideas index. Further down the trail, we caught up with another party who had stopped to pour themselves a drink.

We made our way around to a pack of forest dancers who also felt it unnecessary to proceed any further. As we slid through the troupe of dancers, we were glad we wore our hoods.

Wheezing and gasping for air, these prancing prancers sounded like they studied ballet in the 1970s. Before we contracted these ladies’ afflictions, we continued down the trail without delay, only to arrive at another terrifying sight.

Ever the lover of our feline familiars, Sicamous Local News was faced with an infinite parade of would-be cat smashers. Completely ignorant of the importance of Felis catus’s role in the valley’s natural food chain, culprit after culprit presented themselves as an ally to the spread of disease. Faced with this second red flag, the team quickly came to the conclusion: this place is not safe.

Determined to escape the biohazardous mess, our pace quickened as we marched on. It seemed the lack of feline security and the careless hacking of lungs was taking its toll on terror walk attendees. We passed a group resting on the side of the trail; another group had one of their party laid out supine while they administered first aid.

Unable to provide assistance, we kept moving. We shouted, “We will send help!” as we ran past. Like a true team, our hearts beat in unison as we thundered down the trail in fear. The intense rhythm grew louder and faster and louder—and oh wait, there’s a guy with a drum.

We weren’t sure what all this madness was, but we think we should have let this guy know about the Red Barns Drum Circle event coming up in November. He looked like the type. With no time for pleasantries, we hastily moved on. We had told the other party we would find help for their fallen friend. As we continued down the trail, we realized we didn’t remember—does someone really need help? Was it a dream, within a dream, within a dream, and when we wake up, will it just be the beginning of another nightmare?

Our sense of urgency rose to frantic levels, our feet smashing the path like the keys on a typewriter. The article must be written. We have to make it to the end to tell the people what horrors we’ve borne witness to. We could tell we were approaching higher ground because of the distinct highland music. The remnants of Scottish in our blood were soothed, and the fear tickling our spines relaxed momentarily. The path led us to the home of a lady in the woods. A brief glimmer of hope that she may have a landline we could call for help from was quickly extinguished when we realized she was dealing with a pestilence problem of her own.

Her home was overrun by one particularly large reptilian. Furthermore, her trusty steed was succumbing to an unknown affliction. With all hope lost, she stood in front of her humble abode reading poetry presumably about her grief. Off in the woods, disillusioned event attendees stammered through the trees. This place is a mess! Everywhere we looked: walkers lost and confused, animals exhibiting strange behaviour, and eerie lights cascading down onto us.

We made our way into a clearing towards the safety of the bagpipes. The heavenly sounds of our ancestors were found to be mystifyingly interacting with a great spirit levitating majestically in the open field. Not having been cordially invited to what indeed was some form of private ceremony, we realized we had lost the trail and were now intruding on a separate gathering. Unaware of the affiliation of the gathering’s hosts, we decided it best not to assume that where there are bagpipes there is safety, and we continued on.

Back on track, we could see the lights of the Caravan Farm timber barn in the distance. Upon returning to the main trail, we were greeted by officials of the Caravan Farm Theatre who assured the news team all was well and that there had been no need for alarm. They instructed us to step through their wicker portal back to reality—where one last scare was in store for us. Some rotten scoundrels deceived us into believing we had bought a fixer-upper property, where we quickly realized we would be forced to buy an entirely unfair, under-covered insurance policy. We were facing a termite infestation. The roof was failing. We needed new windows. The soil was infected, uneven, and in need of severe landscaping attention. The door to door solicitators were there to prove it.

Through the front door and into the dancing barn, we had awoken from one last dream within a dream, and completed another tour into the greater Spallumcheen/Armstrong area. We tried to relax after the trauma, but there was something inherently unsettling about that much fire twirling around that many highly combustible materials.

“Facts” ran a quick Encyclopædia Britannica search and found no historical references of past incidents for the professionals at Kinshira. What he did find, however, was plenty of reason to add Kinshira to our perimeter radar scanners. It is easy to see why they are a perfect fit to be working with Caravan Farm Theatre, and we certainly hope to see them again next year.

Editors Note: When we asked “Photography” why there was no photo’s on the walk he said you’re not allowed without permission and he was right not to, we seldomly ask for permission.

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