Emily Becker '27, Alicia Kaufmann '27
Staff Editors
During my senior year of college, I hopped on a train from Philly to New York for what would be the second most disappointing haunted house experience I have ever endured. A dear friend of mine has long been obsessed with haunted houses, and after a copious amount of research, settled on one located on the Lower East Side. I will keep my summary brief, but what ensued was roughly thirty minutes of riding a rickety cart at a glacial pace, being lightly sprayed with water, and shuffling through what felt like a closet with strobe lights.
Still, optimistic pair that we were, we returned the next year in hopes that a couple of negative Google reviews (not written by us) would have inspired an improved experience. All I can say is that somehow the program was shorter and even less compelling than before. In an attempt to justify his continued support of what I would call more of an assembly of awkward skits than a haunted house, my friend made the point that some of the best places were too far away or have been closed down.
This same friend recently ribbed me for not flying up to Connecticut to attend another, supposedly better, haunted house this year, as apparently our old Lower East Side standby had closed down. The shuttering of our old haunt got me thinking about my friend's earlier comment about haunted housing being forcibly shut down, and I felt that as a first-year law student, it was my prerogative to investigate the legal history of haunted house regulation. As one might expect, there has been a spate of tort cases predicated upon alleged duties to protect haunted house patrons from harm. I will refrain from launching into an LRW-style memo on these, and simply note that courts do not appear to be too friendly toward patrons who have voluntarily assumed the risks incumbent in a haunted house visit. I will, however, share a few details of what was certainly the spookiest case I came across, that of McKamey Manor.
McKamey Manor garnered national attention as the subject of a Hulu documentary released in 2023. Its website boasts that it is “the one and only ORIGINAL ‘Extreme Haunted Attraction,’ and ‘Survival Horror Challenge’” in which “you will live your own horror movie.” Prospective participants must submit a doctor's note and proof of health insurance, sign a forty-page waiver, undergo a video screening, and pass a drug test.[1] McKamey is said to advertise a $20,000 prize for anyone who has successfully completed the haunted house program. An online petition to shut down McKamey on the grounds that the program targets easily manipulable individuals and tortures them has garnered nearly 200,000 signatures.[2]
In the wake of the Hulu documentary, the Tennessee Attorney General opened an investigation into McKamey Manor. This involved the issuance of a formal Request for Information pursuant to the Tennessee Code, which required Ross McKamey, the ostensible owner and operator of McKamey Manor, to comply with nineteen document requests and answer twenty-eight interrogatories under oath. The interrogatories began with the basics—when Mr. McKamey began operating the haunted house, how it is funded and/or makes money, whether anyone has won the rumored $20,000 prize. The questions then increased in specificity, requesting bank account information, a list of participants who have striven for the prize, and all films of McKamey Manor tours.
Mr. McKamey retaliated with a lawsuit against Tennessee Attorney General Jonathan Skrmetti and Commissioner of the Tennessee Department of Commerce and Insurance (and State Fire Marshal) Carter Lawrence requesting injunctions exempting Mr. McKamey from compliance with the Request for Information and barring state fire marshals from entering Mr. McKamey's property, as well as a declaratory judgment and attorney's fees. After a volley of motion amendments and responses, the court dismissed Mr. McKamey's claims, but not without creating what could be a fascinating glimpse into the investigation that we, as the public, may not learn much more about unless it results in civil or criminal charges.
The pleadings in this case may be lacunose with respect to the entire paper trail of this case, but for the investigatively minded reader, they hint at a number of intriguing questions—why does Mr. McKamey run this program? What is the history of law enforcement interaction with McKamey Manor and its participants? In his complaint, Mr. McKamey states that McKamey Manor is located in unincorporated territory—was this a strategic choice on his part and if so, why? Mr. McKamey also claims not to do business as a Tennessee entity—does the haunted house make money? If so, what is the money trail? Does Mr. McKamey control any corporate entities? The story of McKamey Manor has the potential to take on a spookiness beyond what it advertises—and depending on the outcome of the Attorney General's investigation, we may or may not learn the full story.[3]
If the McKamey case has not dissuaded you from pursuing a little extra adrenaline this Halloween, look no further than our very own Charlottesville. Our quiet town offers quite a few special Halloween scare events.
For non-jump scare enthusiasts, there is a an hour-long walking tour that guides you through Charlottesville’s most ghastly sites, flawlessly named “Charlottesville Ghost Tour.” According to the website, the tour covers how “Revolutionary and Civil War perils, haunted plantations, and dark deeds of Virginia’s founding fathers birthed the most spine-chilling hauntings of the Blue Ridge Mountains.”[4] So check it out… if you’re into that sort of thing.
For the horror movie and haunted house-loving folk, Madame Redrum’s Nine Gates of Doom may be for you. Just a thirty-seven minute drive from downtown Charlottesville, “[t]his attraction is unlike any other in the country. Madame Redrum WILL make you scream.”[5] The experience is set up as a winding path with 9 rooms, each scarier than the last, and features live performers in gory costumes, special effects, and strobe lights. But don’t worry if you get there and find your pants getting wet, they have designated “chicken” doors for those who just can’t handle the fear. Looking to impress someone special? This looks like the place.
But the “chicken doors” are the only relief Madam Redrum offers. Similar to the haunted house in the news above, Madam Redrum makes sure to advertise their lack of liability by citing Virginia Code § 3.1-796.139 on their website. Section 3.1-796.139 requires every “agritourism professional” to post a warning outside their site that reads:
WARNING: Under Virginia law, there is no liability for an injury to or death of a participant in an agritourism activity conducted at this agritourism location if such injury or death results from the inherent risks of the agritourism activity. Inherent risks of agritourism activities include, among others, risks of injury inherent to land, equipment, and animals, as well as the potential for you to act in a negligent manner that may contribute to your injury or death. You are assuming the risk of participating in this agritourism activity.
I’m having a little trouble reconciling “agritourism professional” with “Madame Redrum’s Nine Gates of Hell,” but I’m going to optimistically assume they have been counseled that their business falls under this statute. Nonetheless, a clear, short statement of liability in large lettering posted outside of the actual haunted house is probably more effective than McKamey Manor’s forty-page waiver no one is going to glance at.
Moral of the story is: Be careful out there and have a happy Halloween!
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ejb6zt@virginia.edu, hcr9bm@virginia.edu