On the (Creepy Clown) Trail with Durham Parks and Recreation

“Has anybody come to this before?” Ryan Solistad, our guide for the evening, asks shortly before we enter the woods.

Nobody raises a hand. 

“Okay,” Solistad says, “some things to know. First: the clowns will not touch you.”

Beside me, the INDY’s staff photographer, Angelica, presses her fingertips to her temples like she’s warding off a headache. We’re huddled with about 20 people at the mouth of a trail leading into West Point on the Eno, waiting to embark on the Creepy Clown Walk, a seasonal outing hosted by Durham Parks and Recreation. 

Contraband is usually not permitted at Eno parks, but tonight, White Claws and Ponysaurus beer are available for purchase. Political involvement is also encouraged, per the “Say Yes to the Bonds!” flyers present. 

“The way this all started was, a few years ago, we were doing a flashlight scavenger hunt for kids,” says Solistad, who works in the parks department. “We were like, ‘Wouldn’t this be weird if there’s a bunch of clowns in the woods? So, now there’s a bunch of clowns in the woods.”

An online calendar listing offers a more dramatic backstory—something involving a clown car that crashed into the Eno River, its passengers never recovered. Ever since, the listing reads, “clowns can be seen” at West Point one night a year.

Tonight is that night. The conditions for the walk are sublime. The air is cold and clear, and the moon, bright and waning, looms above the trees like a lopsided spotlight. Unfortunately, Angelica has just realized she left her camera battery at home—a first in her career, she tells me. Maybe some things are better left unphotographed, anyway.

I haven’t been to West Point this late at night in at least a decade. The last time was for one of River Dave Owen’s famous night floats, where a copperhead launched itself off the trail at a friend’s parent. I wonder if this walk will even come close to that. 

There’s already something almost deflating 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 a grown-up who registered for an adults-only haunted event. If I walk out of these woods without my heart racing, do I even exist?

“The clowns are a little in their feelings tonight,” Solistad says, continuing his spiel. “They’re sad, they’re mad. Just be prepared.” 

Angelica shoots me a look. 

“Follow the balloons,” Solistad finishes, gesturing to a red balloon tied to a branch at the trail’s entrance.

I raise my hand. “Are we moving as a pack?” It’s not meant to be funny, but it prompts two women nearby to dissolve into giggles.

“No,” Salistad says, dryly. “You will walk individually, by yourself, blindfolded.”

Then he smiles. “You go with the groups you came with,” he says.

For the most part, the clowns don’t speak. They materialize along the trail like strange mushrooms, crying or pouting or watching us with vacant amusement. There are few jump scares or sudden movements—mostly just tears and stares.

A few minutes in, we encounter a clown wearing a beret, furiously working at an easel. Her face is streaked with grease paint.

“Who are you?” I ask since I’m supposed to be here for journalistic purposes. “What’s your story?”

She doesn’t respond but hands me a piece of paper that reads “For my muse” before melting back into the shadows.

The trail unfolds. Next is a clown with a trombone, releasing mournful honks into the darkness. Then a clown in a kayak on the river, paddling closer to the shoreline as we pass.

“You can’t touch me!” I find myself calling to each clown, less as a warning and more because it feels weird not to acknowledge them. As I suspected, the clowns aren’t that scary.

Then, suddenly, we’re not on the trail anymore. Memories flash rapid-fire: afternoon hikes where paths bent in unexpected ways, every scene from The Blair Witch Project, a copperhead writhing in the air–

“It’s this way,” Angelica says, tsking and pointing at a balloon up ahead. I hang back for a second, palms sweating. Finally—the real scare I came for. The clowns may follow rules, but the woods don’t.

As we forge ahead, a tinny melody drifts through the trees: ice cream truck music. We find ourselves face-to-face with a clown with a cartoonish blockhead. 

“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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