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These days, a night at one of SoCal’s most popular haunted attractions usually begins with attendants scanning digital tickets at a clearly marked entrance.

At Coffin Creek, things were a little different.

Those who made the journey to Corona’s annual haunt entered an eerie scene the moment they veered off the 71 Freeway and down the desolate roads to Riverview Recreation Park, where Coffin Creek made its home. In the parking area, the dust kicked up by the vehicles created its own layer of fog, and sounds could be heard in the darkness — faint screams, the echo of chain saws and the nervous chatter of the hauntgoers. There was always a sense of mystery and excitement: With its independent, grassroots vibe, Coffin Creek — one of the longest-running Halloween attractions in Southern California — was the little haunt that could.

Coffin Creek has had its final run. Its founder and operator, Gary Shireman, passed away last month at the age of 74. But its legend lives on in the community of Halloween enthusiasts.

Coffin Creek, situated at Riverview Recreation Park, had a rustic feel, which added to the spookiness.

(Warren So)

While Coffin Creek, which at times went by the name Crossroads Haunted Village, was essentially a destination populated by several independently owned and operated haunted mazes, Shireman was the head of the operation. An electrician by trade and a longtime horror fan, Shireman launched the enterprise in 2007 after spending years searching for a location. He landed upon 180 acres of a park in Corona near the Santa Ana River. And as he soon discovered, it was already haunted, perhaps.

The backstory of the Coffin Creek locale — at least as it’s told through a newspaper story on the haunt’s website — is that in 1938, a massive flood hit Southern California, unearthing 13 coffins in Corona from an abandoned cemetery. Only some of the human remains from those coffins were recovered, and soon people in the area began seeing and hearing strange things at night.

Local artists and volunteers worked all year to open Coffin Creek, which was never a production as flashy or refined as Universal’s Halloween Horror Nights, Knott’s Scary Farm or any of SoCal’s well-established haunted maze destinations — but that was part of the allure. The darkness of the woods and muddy terrain was just as effective scenery as any of the bedsheet drapery or wooden flats that had been set up. While a discerning guest may have noticed that some of the haunted set pieces were missing a little paint or not lighted all that well, the cackling heard from the dark spaces in between reminded folks that it was all about the final thrill. One could never tell when a chain-saw-wielding madman was about to jump out from behind a wall.

The sign for the Coffin Creek Manor maze.

(Scott Feinblatt)

“Gary’s mazes were very old-school and very low-tech, and he was a big proponent of that,” said Warren So, a contributor for Hollywood Gothique, an online guide to all things horror in L.A. “He felt that all we need is a good old-school scare. As long as people scream, then it’s successful.”

In one 2011 interview, Shireman said he would work all year for that “first scream of the season.” Some attendees would take one step through the front door and come right back out.

The mazes at Coffin Creek had names like Chambers of the Mausoleum, Labyrinth of Lost Relics, Bog of the Abyss, the Dark Realm and Coffin Creek Manor, the legend’s namesake. One of the most endearing aspects of the destination was that several of the mazes took residence in the permanent structures that composed the medieval-inspired village of the Koroneburg Renaissance Festival on the park’s grounds.

A scare actor ready for his next victim.

(Scott Feinblatt)

Actors played all types of ghoulish creatures, including orcs and vampires. Uncle Zed’s Zombie Safari, which was one of several haunted hayride-style attractions that appeared over the years, even featured something of a community-sourced collection of monsters, all of which originated from independent contributions to the Secure, Contain, Protect (SCP) horror subgenre. Guests of this Coffin Creek attraction were carted along from one breached containment scenario to the next, with roving monsters periodically surprising them in the darkness between the scantily lighted vignettes.

Steve Biodrowski, the owner and operator of Hollywood Gothique, said Shireman worked tirelessly behind the scenes, dealing not only with the haunt’s creation but also with all the red tape that came with operating at the Corona park. Biodrowski recalled Shireman telling him about the complex nature of its ownership. “There were like four different owners,” Biodrowsky explained. “One was federal, and I believe it had something to do with the Army; then there were state and local departments involved. Getting everybody to sign on to a deal or agree to allow the haunted village to operate was just near impossible.”

Clowns haunted the premises — and visitors’ dreams.

(Scott Feinblatt)

Over the years of Coffin Creek’s various incarnations, a number of ancillary attractions complemented the mazes: a magic show, horror merchandise vendors and food stands. Some of the haunts included higher production value effects — Chambers of the Mausoleum, for instance, featured inventive animatronics from its principal operator, Figment Foundry. Even by the mid-2010s during a proliferation of local haunted attractions, the village downsized but the mazes never lost their charm. By continually utilizing veneers and components from past maze builds, the distinctive landscape and the talents of passionate, volunteers, Shireman continued to conjure an entertaining enterprise.

His passion for haunted attractions did not end at Coffin Creek. In 2022, Shireman partnered with haunt producer Jason Thompson to host the Haunt X convention at the Fairplex in Pomona. The event provided independent haunt owners and artisans an opportunity to network, learn trade techniques and showcase their enterprises and goods with one another and with their fans.

“He wasn’t just into haunted houses,” So said of Shireman. “He was always bouncing ideas about other Halloween stuff that was family-friendly — not scary — for the kids.” Additionally, So said that Shireman was generous with the community. “He loved talking to you about your haunt and his haunt and sharing ideas. I think everybody would agree that he was always willing to help. Another buddy of mine was building his haunted house, and even though it had nothing to do with Gary, he was down to help out and build out in the heat, in the desert. And Gary did not benefit one single cent. That’s just the guy he was — he doesn’t ask for anything and just wants to make a friend and help make a good haunt.”

The legend of the Coffin Creek location is that a flood hit Southern California, unearthing 13 coffins from an abandoned cemetery.

(Scott Feinblatt)

Shortly before his death, Shireman expressed enthusiasm about Coffin Creek’s future. He had announced that the haunt would be moving to a new Riverside location, the Lake Perris Fairgrounds, where it would operate in tandem with the Perris Pumpkin Patch. That couldn’t happen, but the Perris Pumpkin Patch has been operational this season and remains a family-friendly destination.

And while the haunt may have ended, like with any good maze, there may always be something more lurking ahead.

When conflict between the Sudan Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Force (RSF) had reached its peak in early 2024, Saleh Iliyas and Abdurrahim, his friend-turned-family member, were doing the math: staying could mean dying at home, and leaving could mean dying on the road. But what becomes of a man whose world is torn in halves?  

The conflict in Sudan had caught Saleh unprepared. He was just a tailor with steady hands when the violence came without warning. He could remember when he heard the first gunshot in April 2023. It sounded like a joke, “but Khartoum breathed its last quiet breath before the storm then.”

Saleh never thought the recent tensions between the RSF and local communities in Khartoum would escalate into a full-blown war. Here he was now, not only consumed by the violence but also considering moving out. 

Deciding where to go was easy since he had lived part of his childhood in Nigeria. The difficult question was how to move out with a sick and ageing father, a young wife, and two children, including a newborn. 

Then a turning point came.

As he sat in front of his house for Iftar, the evening meal during Ramadan, one day, a rocket passed over his head and landed a few meters away. The result was a huge blast, fire, collapsed buildings, and many dead bodies.

“It was as if Khartoum stood still for a second, and then the screams from the women, children, and men who were either terrified or affected, followed,” he told HumAngle. 

Saleh had to leave. He spoke to his father and his friend, Abdurrahim. A driver who knew his way to safety said he needed three days to arrange it. 

Within the three days of waiting, violence intensified in Khartoum. Power lines were severed, the internet was disrupted, and rumours replaced news. The RSF and SAF engaged each other, and the war was everywhere.

Saleh’s house, where his wife, father, two children, and Abdurrahim had found safety, became both a refuge and a prison. Food dwindled. The markets were looted, and many high-rise buildings were targeted or destroyed.

“Do you think this will end soon?” his wife asked one night, her voice trembling over the silence.

He didn’t answer. He was thinking of the absurdity of the war — blood brothers from SAF and the RSF fighting each other with pride. He thought of how men killed for mere symbols and a warlord who didn’t care.

They did not sleep peacefully in the three nights before the driver decided they had to leave. “We’ll go west,” he said, “through Omdurman. Maybe reach some safe villages, then south. There are routes people are taking.” 

That night, Saleh stepped outside to see Khartoum one last time. The mornings that began with laughter and the Nile’s breeze were all gone. He remembered the faith that tomorrow would always come. Now, tomorrow was a ghost. 

And so began their exodus, not as wanderers seeking land, but as souls, as resilient individuals who believed that there was a life to continue elsewhere.

On the torturer’s fork 

To understand Saleh’s ruin, one must first understand the men who lit the match.

General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan, head of the Sudan Armed Forces, was a career soldier moulded by the doctrines of control and hierarchy. He rose through the ranks during Omar al-Bashir’s three-decade rule, loyal to the idea that the army was the soul of Sudan.

Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, known as Hemedti, was his ally. He is a former camel trader from Darfur who built his power on the backs of Janjaweed militias that were once accused of all sorts of war crimes. Hemedti’s RSF, which was an offshoot of the Janjaweed, became an autonomous force, commanding men who were not new to violence.

When al-Bashir fell in 2019 after months of civilian protests, the two generals joined forces to secure the transition, but peace was only a mask. The revolution that brought them together also planted the seeds of distrust.

By early 2023, tensions over integrating the RSF into the regular army had boiled over. Hemedti refused to dissolve his forces, fearing subjugation; al-Burhan insisted it was necessary for a unified state. And so, the generals who once shared a coup became rivals in a war that would tear their country apart.

Abdulrahim and Saleh could recall that during the revolution that brought El-Bashir down, many people were supporting the army, “and then just a year into the regime, everything changed for the worse,” said Abdurrahim. “Inflation rose and prices skyrocketed five times.” 

Saleh explained that the size of bread that once cost 1 SDG (Sudanese pound) rose to 3 SDG under El-Bashir and led to protests, but it became about 15 to 20 SDG under al-Burhan. 

“So you could see why people were angry with al-Burhan, and when squabbles started between him and Hemedti, people like us were supporting the RSF because we thought he was doing a great job, not pursuing any selfish interest,” Saleh said. 

Hemedti won the hearts of the Sudanese by calling for a democratic transition. But as the tension rose, said Saleh, many RSF trucks were positioned “almost everywhere in Khartoum.” 

According to him, Khartoum residents are administrative people and are not familiar with seeing weapons and military personnel stationed on every corner. That situation led to lots of skirmishes between civilians and the RSF, which made the paramilitary lose its popularity. 

And then the war broke out. 

The first weeks were chaos. Khartoum became a battlefield, its neighbourhoods reduced to rubble of what once were. Jets roared over the city as SAF bombarded RSF positions, while paramilitary men seized streets, looted markets, and turned homes into barracks. 

Hospitals were shelled, schools attacked, buildings destroyed, and corpses lay unburied in the heat. Humanitarian corridors were promises that dissolved under fire.

“Every high-rise building, every mall, bank, or any empty building became a hideout for snipers or a target of bombs,” said Abdurrahim. “Lots of people were killed while attempting to run away.”

Despite that danger, more than 10 million Sudanese fled their homes, spilling into Chad, South Sudan, Egypt, and beyond. Refugee camps rose overnight. The United Nations called it “the world’s largest displacement crisis.” Families were separated, and in the chaos of the roads, mothers buried children without names. 

Saleh knew the stories before becoming one. He heard of those who died on the road to Port Sudan, those who drowned in the Nile trying to escape, and those who vanished into the desert.

And then foreign actors got involved. 

Egypt, with its close ties to the army, threw its weight behind al-Burhan’s forces, seeking a stable ally along the Nile. UN investigators accused the United Arab Emirates of backing the RSF, funnelling weapons through Chad and the Central African Republic, an allegation it has denied. 

Russia’s Wagner Group, long embedded in Sudan’s gold trade, was reported to have supported Dagalo’s men in securing mining sites. Countries condemned both sides, but diplomacy also took a bullet in the crossfire.

Long road to Nigeria 

One night in early 2025, Saleh, his father, his friend Abdurrahim, his wife, and their two children joined a small group of neighbours, eighteen in all, mostly women and children, to begin their escape.

They had been warned about the dangers. Snipers perched on rooftops, looters prowled the streets, and militias set up unpredictable checkpoints. 

“We had to move as one,” Saleh recalled. “If we walked separately or rode in a car, we might never make it out.”

They moved silently through the alleys of Khartoum. Behind them, the echoes of shelling rolled like distant thunder. Ahead lay uncertainty, hundreds of kilometres of dust, hunger, and fear. “But anything was better than staying,” said Saleh.

Abdurrahim, his childhood friend, walked beside him. “You know where you are going,” he said, “but you don’t know the road to follow. You just keep moving along the direction and stepping carefully to avoid danger.”

They reached the outskirts of the city by dawn, where they met the driver, a middle-aged man who had turned his pickup into a vessel of salvation amidst a war. He took what little they carried: documents, a few clothes, and “some stuff my father said was important,” recalled Saleh.

The drive southward revealed the full reality of the war. Buildings Saleh once admired — the glass towers, the university Abdulrahim attended, the small tea shops that once lined the streets — lay in ruins. Skeletons of burned cars littered the roads. 

They zigzagged across Sudan, avoiding the territories of warring factions, surviving on bread, water, and anything their small money could buy. The journey that should have taken days stretched into weeks. 

“We knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Saleh said, “but we didn’t imagine it would be this hard.”

When they finally reached the border with South Sudan, they rested for a day. They had thought they wouldn’t be welcomed, especially due to the recent history of conflict between North and South Sudan, “but were really supported there.”

“My son was even given water by one of their soldiers,” Saleh said. 

From South Sudan, they moved again, passing through the Central African Republic into Chad. They met others moving in the same direction on foot. One group of about ten told Saleh they had started the journey as more than thirty. “They looked haunted,” he said. “Their faces told stories the mouth could not.”

It rained the day they arrived in Chad. They were temporarily registered as refugees, yet Saleh felt restless after a few weeks. “You cannot live waiting for mercy every day,” he said softly. “You begin to forget who you are.”

Nigeria, where his late grandfather hailed from, seemed the next logical destination. Though Saleh himself was born in Saudi Arabia, he spent some of his childhood years in Nigeria.  

“I thought we could come here and start afresh before the war ended,” he said.

Now in Nigeria, the dust of the journey still clings to his eyes, the eyes of a man who has seen too much of the evil humans can do to one another.

Safety and its aftermath 

From the Chadian border, through Maiduguri, in Nigeria’s North East, they finally arrived in Kano, in the country’s North West. Saleh and Abdurrahim found a city that looked energetic, but beneath it ran a quiet struggle. They rented a small shop in Rimin Auzinawa and waited for customers who rarely came.

“The economy is choking everyone,” Saleh said. “People rarely bring new clothes, and when they do, the amount they pay is too small.”

They had imagined Nigeria as a place of opportunity, where hard work would bring dignity. But the naira’s fall made everything expensive. “You open the shop from morning to night,” Abdurrahim said, “and at the end, you barely earn enough for bread.”

Saleh and Abdurrahim told HumAngle that the money they had come with was about to finish, and they were not earning enough to sustain life. Now, as evening fell over Kano, Saleh and Abdurrahim sat outside their shop, their machines silent, their thoughts elsewhere.

“We will leave the families here,” Saleh said, his voice low. “Let them have stability, even if we don’t. Algeria is not home, but maybe there, a man can at least feed those he loves.”

And so, once again, the journey calls — not for safety this time, but for survival.

No sooner had the Toronto Blue Jays clinched a World Series spot against the Dodgers than the torrent of memes, posts and tweets flowed, all with some version of this one-liner: Finally, Shohei Ohtani is on the plane to Toronto.

On a December day two years ago, as Ohtani navigated free agency: three reports surfaced: there was a private plane flying from Orange County to Toronto (true); Ohtani had decided to sign with the Blue Jays (false); and Ohtani was on a flight to Toronto (false).

When the jet landed, surrounded by reporters and photographers and even a news helicopter, an entire country fell into despair. The gentleman on the plane was not Ohtani.

He was Robert Herjavec, a star on “Shark Tank” and a prominent Canadian businessman with homes in Toronto and Southern California.

“It is my only claim to fame in the sports world: to be mistaken for someone else,” Herjavec said Tuesday.

Herjavec said he hopes to attend at least one World Series game in Los Angeles and another in Toronto. He is not the Dodgers’ $700-million man, but he said he would enjoy meeting Ohtani.

“I’m very disappointed,” Herjavec said with a laugh, “he hasn’t reached out to me for financial advice.”

He is no different than the rest of us, Ohtani’s teammates included. Watching Ohtani play calls to mind the words Jack Buck used to call Kirk Gibson’s home run: I don’t believe what I just saw.

“To me, as a layman and a couch athlete, the ability to throw a ball at 100 mph and then go out and hit three home runs?” Herjavec said. “It’s mind boggling.”

To be a successful businessman takes talent too, no?

“That’s the beauty of business,” he said. “I always say to people, business is the only sport where you can play at an elite level with no God-given talent.”

On that fateful Friday, Herjavec and his 5-year-old twins were en route to Toronto, and normally he would have known what was happening on the ground before he landed. However, he had turned off all the phones and tablets on board so he could play board games with his children in an effort to calm them.

“I gave them too much sugar,” he said. “They were wired.”

Upon landing, Canadian customs agents boarded the plane, in a hopeful search for Ohtani. Herjavec and his kids got off the plane, descending into a storm of national news because the Blue Jays are Canada’s team.

I asked Herjavec if he ever had disappointed so many people at any point in his life. He burst out laughing.

“That is such a great question,” he said. “That is my crowning achievement: I let down an entire nation at one time.”

The Blue Jays have a rich history. In 1992-93, they won back-to-back World Series championships, the feat the Dodgers are trying to duplicate.

The Jays have not appeared in the World Series since 1993, but that is not even close to the longest or most painful championship drought in Toronto.

The Maple Leafs, playing Canada’s national sport, have not won the Stanley Cup since 1967. That would be like the Dodgers or Yankees not winning the World Series since 1967.

“Speaking of letting people down,” Herjavec said.

The difference between Americans and Canadians, he said, is that Americans expect to win and Canadians believe it would be nice to win.

He counts himself in the latter camp. He can call both the Dodgers and Blue Jays a home team, but he is rooting for Toronto in this World Series.

“I have to,” he said, “because I’ve already disappointed the entire country once.

“I’m hoping, with my moral support, this will redeem me to Canadians.”

ACTOR Kevin Spacey sexually assaulted a man despite being told, “No, this is not right”, court documents allege.

The star is being sued at the High Court by the man known only as LNP, who says he suffered pain, anxiety and distress.

Elizabeth-Anne Gumbel, for LNP, says in papers filed at the court that the alleged assaults happened on about 12 occasions from 2000 to 2005.

She says: “Mr Spacey would place his own hand on the claimant’s leg without consent.

“The claimant would attempt to remove the hand and say, ‘No, this is not right’.”

She called it a “breach of trust and exploitation by a powerful man in a position of responsibility on a much younger man”.

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Ms Gumbel said that LNP had suffered “pain and suffering at the time of the abuse itself, which was exacerbated by feelings of embarrassment, shame, dirtiness and confusion”.

He also suffered “anxiety and distress and mild post-traumatic symptoms from the abuse”.

She said: “The assaults were committed in circumstances of breach of trust and exploitation by a powerful man in a position of responsibility on a much younger man.

“The claimant seeks to claim aggravated damages.”

Oscar-winner Spacey, 66, has previously denied allegations of inappropriate behaviour and wrongdoing.

He has yet to file a defence to the claim.