Museum of Horror

There are tales passed down from generation to generation, terrifying stories designed to spook. Edinburgh's gloomy wynds and closes are a breeding ground for them.

One cautionary tale that circulates during the Fringe, offered by veterans to wide-eyed newcomers, is of marauding covens of amateur dramatic groups. They haunt dark spaces off the Royal Mile, luring the unwitting in with their siren call of "five stars in the local paper".

Once in their inky grip it is too late. Joy and cash is sapped via zombie acting, an undead script, and supernaturally bad puns.

The grizzled old-timers have all encountered these demons. You can tell by the faraway look in their eyes. They shudder as they recall unleashing their only terrible weapon against these ghouls: the one star review.

Huddle close reader, for what you are about to read might save your faith in theatre, the Fringe, and at least £8.

Museum of Horror is one such show. It lurks on the crossroads between the Royal Mile and North Bridge. Do not be fooled by its alluring haunted house premise. The story of four young archetypes—the nerd, the jock, the Essex girl, the cocky Mancunian—spending the night in a macabre museum conjures up no thrills or chills. Instead prolonged exposure to missed cues and a decomposing script simply deadens the soul.

If you see this reviewer one dark night soon, buy him a drink. Ask him to share his terrifying tale. How will you recognise him? By the dead look in his eyes.