Chapter 4
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN more than a decade, the gates to Wonderland are open.
Though they kept the name the same—something the town council insisted on when they voted to allow the sale of the park—the new owners have rebranded everything else.
There were a few grumblings from the old-timers about changing anything about the legendary Wonderland, but most Seaside folks didn’t protest. Whatever had to be done to get it back up and running was fine with them.
As a thank-you to the town for their support, admission to today’s soft opening is free for all local residents who can show proof of address.
That serial killers passed through here.
Barb holds up her Chronicle press badge and is waved through the gate by an orange-clad employee who already looks overwhelmed.
She then steps through one of a dozen new metal detectors before being greeted by two more staff members wearing bright orange golf shirts.
Back in the day, the old uniform was purple.
But as the new sunrise logo suggests, it’s a new dawn, baby.
“You’ll find free water-filling stations all throughout the park,” the teenage employee says to Barb as she hands her a tote bag full of “swag.” Inside is a T-shirt, a reusable water bottle, a book of vouchers, and a colorful trifold map. “It’s important to stay hydrated.”
Barb reads the name tag pinned on the girl’s uniform shirt. “Thank you, Chloe.” Speaking into her phone, she records what the girl just told her as a voice memo.
“I remember you.” The girl is looking at the laminated press badge hanging around Barb’s neck. “You came to my school and spoke about writing for the newspaper. For Mr. Hawksfield’s Writer’s Craft class.”
Barb doesn’t remember this specifically, but she doesn’t doubt she was there.
Daniel Hawksfield—or “Hawk,” as all his students call him—invites Barb back regularly to talk to his senior class about what it’s like to be a working writer.
It’s not her favorite thing to do—feigning enthusiasm about a career in journalism is exhausting—but the high school has a small budget for professional speakers, and she never says no to a paying gig.
“Was I helpful?” Barb asks the girl.
“You said real journalism is dead,” Chloe says, and Barb bites back a laugh. “But Hawk told us later that your cynicism is what makes you a great writer.” She sighs. “He’s my favorite teacher.”
The girl isn’t alone her sentiment. Barb thinks about seeing Hawk at the diner with his much-younger wife and their small children. He’d married one of his former students, which had been quite the scandal, at least until the next scandal came along. “Want your picture in the Chronicle?”
Chloe adjusts her orange visor, the wholesome smile back on her face as Barb snaps a few photos with her phone. She then moves on, her editor-in-chief’s instructions at the forefront of her mind as she takes in her surroundings.
“Remember, this is a puff piece,” Greg had said directly to her at the team meeting earlier that week.
Though the word team might be a bit of an overshoot—there are no permanent staffers at the Chronicle anymore.
The newspaper had a staff of thirty in its heyday, but now all the writers are freelance, with other jobs to help pay the bills.
The Chronicle published mostly online except for the woefully thin print edition they put out every Saturday.
“Put aside your journalistic integrity, and only think of warm and fuzzy things to say. No mention of serial killers. No mention of that fucking docuseries. No mention of your best friend’s murder.
” He gives Barb a pointed look. “And for god’s sake, no mention of the Wonderland scandal. Got it?”
Barb understood the assignment. The Chronicle writers mostly covered church fundraisers and high school football games and the latest developments on the massive new casino being proposed.
Barb wrote human interest stories covering Dell Walker’s 103rd birthday celebration—which made him the oldest person in Seaside—and the stray cat who chased off a cougar in Marissa Sol’s backyard, saving her toddler’s life.
They’d barely touched the Wonderland scandal at all.
They’d left that up to the big-city newspapers, whose journalists flooded the town for weeks in the aftermath.
The Seaside Chronicle is for residents of Seaside.
They don’t want to read about the terrible things that happen in their town.
No one would be able to live here otherwise.
Barb meanders through the park murmuring descriptions into her phone.
The renovations have been extensive, and everywhere she looks, there’s something new to discover.
Vegan and gluten-free options in the food pavilion.
A variety of local craft brews in the newly licensed beer garden.
Double the amount of the bathrooms, some of them all-gender.
A summer-fall concert series at the new soundstage.
Then Halloween Fest, followed by Winter Fest, and a spring series called Movies in the Park After Dark.
Also planned are beer and wine festivals, arts and crafts festivals, food festivals, cultural festivals, basically every kind of festival, anything that brings a regular influx of bodies into the park, and into Seaside, all year round.
But Wonderland isn’t Wonderland without the attractions.
The new colorcoded symbols painted onto the fresh blacktop make it easy to get to wherever you want to go.
Follow the rainbows for the children’s rides, the green Ferris wheel to the adult rides, the blue waves to the water park, the orange pumpkins to Elm Street.
Elm Street, wow. Barb stops at the gated entrance leading to the horror section of the park.
In some ways, she can understand why the new owners opted to keep it; part of Wonderland’s cachet is that it’s always managed to blend that whimsical small-town carnival feel with a modern theme park.
The sign on the gate announces that Elm Street—which features the House of Horrors, Dracula’s Castle, the House of Wax, and Le Cirque de Sang—will be open in time for the Halloween season.
The only attraction that isn’t returning is the Clown Museum. The entire structure, along with the infamous room inside it called the Dollhouse, was razed to the ground ten years ago, its extensive collection of antique clowns and porcelain dolls sold off to private collectors.
And the tunnels underneath it, where the Very Bad Things happened, have been sealed off completely.
Barb heads into the midway, where everyone seems to feel the way she does: dazed and overwhelmed.
It’s like they’re all on that show Extreme Makeover and have finally come back home for the big reveal.
They knew it would be different—and that being different was the point—but so much remains exactly as she remembers it.
The smells of fried yeast and spun sugar mixing with the aroma of hot dogs on the grill.
The Ricky Martin song blasting from the Spinning Sombrero ride.
The neon cat dancing on top of the Tiny Tom Donuts hut.
The game runners coaxing you to spend twenty dollars to win a toy you could buy at the dollar store for two bucks.
And, of course, the infamous Wonder Wheel, whose majestic silhouette has been a part of Seaside’s skyline since it was first built more than sixty years ago.
For a long time, it was the tallest Ferris wheel in the Pacific Northwest. Looking up at it now is jarring, bringing up memories Barb has spent years trying to bury, because she can’t go back; she can’t change anything.
As she stares at the rotating spindles, the colorful chairs swaying in the breeze as the wheel spins slowly, it’s like being fifteen again, standing in the midway with her two best friends on that fateful day they met Samuel Figg, their futures as bright as the hot summer sun, so young and so alive.
So alive.