“Shall we all take a ride on the Ghost Train?” I asked everyone. I had earlier noticed that the queue was extremely long, but by now I knew that this was going to be no ordinary Ghost Train.

Despite their spooky façades, Ghost Trains seldom feature any ghosts inside, and this one was no exception. In fact it turned out to be more of an educational ride.

When we finally got through the queue and paid the admission fee we sat down in a train and our journey began. The big black outer doors opened inwards onto a mock stone wall upon which was mounted a rough wooden sign reading ‘Punishments Through the Ages’.

As it got darker the train turned into the first scene, a medieval dungeon constructed from the same mock stone, lit only by light entering a small horizontal slit window above head height to the right of the scene and two silk flame sconces fixed to the wall behind us.

A family of three, wearing rags around their privates, were strung up by their wrists with ropes attached to a wooden bar running across the ceiling.

The teenage girl and her mother both had their heads bowed and eyes closed, trying to block out the pain felt in their shoulders. But the father’s eyes followed our train sullenly as we made our way slowly along the track.

We were gawping, taking in the cruelty of their predicament, when suddenly my daughter shrieked in surprise. I flinched, and then looked at what she had seen — not a ghost, but monk in a dark brown tunic who had silently emerged from the shadows behind the teenage girl.

She knew what was coming, and screwed up her eyes in anticipation. The monk raised his brown leather whip and lashed her back with a satisfying crack.

As the girl cried out in pain the monk returned to the shadows and our train exited the scene and turned sharply into the next one.

“That’s how you do a jump scare!” I whispered to my wife, impressed.

After moving though strips of blackout fabric our train came upon a curved backscene depicting a town square somewhere in middle-age Europe. Cut-out figures of a crowd shouting and cheering were arranged in front of it around the centre of the scene where a topless woman in her late thirties with untidy brunette hair was manacled with her hands above her head to a sturdy wooden stake. She was sweating profusely, her ample bosom heaving as she breathed.

Stacked all around her up to her waist were the sticks of a gigantic bonfire, and as we took this in, bright orange and yellow light began to flicker from within the stack and flames were projected onto the bonfire from three sides. The sound of the fire crackling was mixed in with the crowd noise over hidden speakers.

Even though it wasn’t a real bonfire, it was a very effective simulation and the witch howled with pain. When I saw a little smoke rising and smelt burning meat, I realised she wasn’t acting: Hidden inside the bonfire there must have been heat guns aimed at her legs and feet.

The bonfire went out after about five seconds and our train continued on to the next scene, my son holding his nose because he didn’t like the smell.

What a contrast the setting for the next scene was: A clinical room in a modern American prison visible to us through a trio of white-framed Plexiglass windows.

We were there to witness the execution of an old man strapped with leather to a wooden chair, electrodes attached to his legs and a wired cap on his bald head.

The strip lights flickered and there was a loud electric buzzing sound — all for effect of course — but we saw sparks fly from the man’s legs as he endured the shock from the Tasers, which I surmised those electrodes were actually connected to out of sight.

“At least you can’t smell this one!” I whispered to my son, nudging him as our train travelled onto the next scene.

Another backscene greeted us, this time depicting the beautiful countryside outside the walls of a Roman town. To give the scene some depth, a real gate was set into a mock stone wall erected with forced perspective in such a way that it all seamlessly blended into the photographic wall of the backscene. To the right of this there was a real wooden crucifix, to which a naked teenage boy with short curly black hair was affixed, moaning with his tearful eyes firmly closed, as if he was trying to meditate his way out of his suffering.

The attention to detail, usually lacking in recreations of crucifixion, was admirable. There were even a few stuffed crows perched on the wall awaiting the boy’s demise.

The boy hung from rough square nails hammered though his wrists and his feet were nailed to the stipes with his legs slightly bent. In this position he was able to ‘dance’ on the cross for us, slowly shifting his weight from his wrists to his feet and back time after time in an attempt alleviate the pain, even for a moment.

I knew he would dance until he ran out of energy. He certainly wouldn’t bleed to death, as his executioners had made sure to place their nails correctly to avoid excessive blood loss. Eventually he would hang by his wrists, struggling to breathe until he could breathe no more.

My daughter looked up at him with fascination, her eyes darting all over his body, perhaps aroused by his handsome cock and smooth chest.

Too soon our train moved onto the next scene, and we were transported to a souk in modern-day Saudi Arabia. Amongst all the pots, pans, clothes and fake food in this little recreation of a narrow market street was a basket of stones. A prominent sign in Arabic and English invited us to ‘Help Yourself’.

We quickly took some stones and passed them to each other before the train turned sharply into a small open square where an unfortunate girl wearing a hijab was buried up to her head in the sandy ground, bruised and bleeding, surrounded by stones.

“You know what to do, kids!” said my wife and we all threw our stones as hard as we could at the girl’s head.

Only a few of the stones hit her though, as it was actually quite hard to hit such a small target from a moving train.

“I got her!” said my daughter.

“You liar!” replied my son, hitting her in the arm, “Only Dad and I scored!”

“Now, now, settle down you two,” I chided.

By now our train had turned a corner yet again and we were back in Europe. This time the backscene was of a chaotic French city with towering buildings, horses and market carts. Another angry cut-out crowd waved real tricolour flags, blown by unseen fans in the ceiling.

Madam La Guillotine had pride of place in the centre of the scene, and for the first time our train stopped so that the front and side of the guillotine remained in view.

Bent over the guillotine with her head in the pillory and leather straps around her arms, midriff and legs was a lovely aristocratic young lady in a fancy white dress. She looked over at us, and then back down to the little basket in front of her with trepidation.

Just then the roar of the imaginary crowd grew louder as drums began to pound. After the third round of drumming the blade was released to cheers from the crowd.

But just as the blade neared the lady’s neck all the lights went out, plunging the scene into darkness. As we heard the blade slice through her neck, and the thump of her head falling into the basket, we felt droplets of blood splashing on our skin and cried out in alarm!

The train immediately started to move again and rounded the final corner where a set of outer doors opened and we were returned to the loading station.

We were a bit shook up, as based on the earlier scenes we had expected the execution to be genuine. But as we stood to get off the train we smiled at each other and expressed our eagerness to go around again. I understood now why the queue was so long.

Walking down the exit steps and wiping the fake blood from our faces, we stopped to take in the notice posted there, complete with headshots:

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Today’s cast, in order of appearance:

• James Morton (condemned). Lily Morton (public humiliation). Agnes Morton (3rd degree public torture). Fred Knowles (monk).
• Maisie Lister (2nd degree public torture).
• Frank Anderson (1st degree public torture).
• Simon Smith (condemned).
• Maryam Siddiqui (condemned).
• Abigail Lister (public humiliation).

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