My Condolences: Kings Island, A Paradise in Mourning…
There was a time when the laughter echoed all the way from the Eiffel Tower replica to the wooden bones of The Beast. The cotton candy haze, the synchronized screams from Drop Tower, the delighted footsteps of children dragging parents behind them—Kings Island was more than an amusement park. It was a collective memory, a frozen summer in the Ohio sun. And now, silence.
Today, Kings Island is a paradise in mourning.
On a bright May morning, the gates still opened. The turnstiles still clicked. The blue-shirted employees still smiled and waved. But something vital had changed. The soul of the park, whatever intangible force once animated its fountains and rides and vendors, seemed to have vanished overnight.
“It’s like the park is grieving,” said longtime visitor Stephanie Rowe, who’s brought her kids every season since 2012. “The music is still playing, but no one’s dancing. The park feels… haunted. Not in the Halloween Haunt way. In a real way.”
Rumors began to spread that something had died—not someone, but something.
The Carousel no longer played its cheerful calliope tune. It spun, yes, but slowly, as though reluctant. The coasters still ran their loops, but the riders returned without cheers—some in tears, others oddly silent, as if they’d seen something mid-ride that couldn’t be explained.
Park staff haven’t offered any concrete explanations. When asked if the strange atmosphere was intentional—perhaps a prelude to a new immersive attraction—spokespeople only offered soft smiles and evasive statements.
“It’s a transitional time,” said one manager who asked not to be named. “Sometimes even magic needs rest.”
Theories abound. Some blame the “Eternal Ride,” an urban legend among parkgoers that speaks of a secret ride hidden behind the trees near The Racer, said to appear only during certain lunar phases. Others point to the recent removal of Vortex in 2019—was its steel spirit never laid to rest?
A vigil appeared seemingly overnight near the International Street fountain. Candles flickered beside old ride photos, Fast Pass lanyards, and park maps from years past. Someone had laid a bouquet of artificial roses with a handwritten note: “For the joy you gave us, and the laughter you carried.”
By midday, more visitors had joined the quiet tribute.
“I brought my son here for his fifth birthday,” said Raymond Ellis, pausing near the roses. “He’s twenty-one now. Married. We still come every year. This place… it’s part of our story. Today, it feels like saying goodbye to an old friend.”
Some guests have reported odd sensations—a deep melancholy upon entering the park, goosebumps in broad daylight, whispers carried on windless air. Still, none could point to anything specific, no definitive event. No headline tragedy. Just a collective grief.
What does it mean for a place to mourn? What does it mean for a paradise to grow quiet?
Perhaps, like people, places hold memory. Perhaps the echoes of all those summers—the friendships forged in line for Banshee, the first kisses by the fireworks finale—have gathered into something sentient. And perhaps it has simply become tired.
“We never think about the spirit of a place,” mused Dr. Lenora Halter, a folklorist from Cincinnati University. “We forget that joy, when layered over decades, becomes its own kind of energy. When that energy disperses—whether due to cultural shift, neglect, or simple entropy—it leaves a vacuum. And that vacuum often feels like grief.”
Will Kings Island recover?
Hard to say. For now, the rides keep turning, the soda still fizzes, and the mascots still pose for pictures. But those who walk the grounds notice the change. They feel the mourning in the air.
Maybe the park will heal. Maybe it just needs time. Or maybe this is the beginning of a new chapter—less about thrills and more about memory. About remembering what Kings Island was, and gently acknowledging what it’s become.
In the meantime, my condolences.
To the place that held our summers, and now carries our silence.