There have been lots of revolutionary ideas throughout history.

If you wanted me to rattle off a few examples, I'd have to say that domesticating cats, the invention of the waffle maker,

and figuring out exactly how chocolate fountains work, come to mind.

But in the spring of 75, an idea that was, according to my very accurate definition, completely

unrevolutionary, opened on the transcontinental bridge.

Aqualand was a very modest 150 acre patch of ocean that, as I'm sure you know, was home

to two aquariums, countless thrill rides, at least a dozen shows, and the

Cracken, which, well, that's a story for another day. In what was either some kind of miracle

or crossroads bargain with the demon, Aqualand managed to operate without incident for five whole years.

I know, I know, I'm just as shocked as you are. I wish I could tell you that the incident that broke

their safety streak was something small, like a leaky faucet, or someone stealing a stuffed bear

from the gift shop. But when it comes to Aqualand,

things are never that simple. In the summer of 1980, there was a string of disappearances. Patrons

taken from the amusement park's grounds, never to be seen again. But where did they go exactly? And who, or what, was responsible for taking

them? Unlike other incidents on the bridge, these disappearances, despite being documented quite

thoroughly, offer no consolation for those who lost loved ones. No mementos resurfaced. No words were carved

into posts, and none of the victims were ever found. Reports from around that time all

described the same thing, one simple, haunting tune that rooted them to the spot. Imagine, if you can, that you're at an amusement park

enjoying time with your family. Or maybe you aren't. It's too crowded. Somehow the entire park is

out of popcorn and you've been standing in line for the Cracken for two hours. You still have no

idea what's in store for you

once you finally get to the front of that line, but it better be worth the weight. You're wondering

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