House of Horrors

Every year, local churches offer Halloween alternatives to traditional haunted houses, witches, and ghouls  focusing the themes toward Christian thought. The metro Mobile area is no different, contributing several community harvest festivals, trunk or treat activities, and age-specific parties. The region's Master's Commission sponsors an annual event featuring a "House of Horrors" attracting countless folks from almost every category of Christianity imaginable. I don't like haunted houses, and as a skeptic of alternative trends and fear-based "salvation," I had never attended. Yet, because some students asked me to check it out, my husband, Tim, and I braved the House of Horrors a few years ago.  

 We parked the car and joined the long line awaiting entry, Numerous signs were posted that cautioned: Do Not Enter if You are Pregnant, Do Not Enter if You Have a Heart Condition, and my personal favorite, Live Snakes.  Grabbing Tim's arm, I followed him into the darkness of the House, pulling scriptures from my memory to encourage myself. Be strong and courageous from the Psalms and I will never leave you nor forsake you."  Besides," I assured myself, "I took my blood pressure medication earlier. This shouldn't be a problem!" Before entering the House proper, the hosts took a picture of us standing in front of a plastic ghoul. I couldn't help but muse, "This is a before we scared you straight snapshot.

The narrow halls of the House, almost pitch black, felt uncomfortably hot. The warm October air and the blended body heat of the workers and guests added to this affect.  As we progressed, we met a variety of characters, inhabitants of hell, depicting typical demons--harsh, cruel, wild-eyed, demanding, and scary. To avoid contact, I tucked my head downward and ignored them, while maintaining my vice-like grip on Tim's arm. Graciously, the characters left me alone as we walked, crawled, and shuffled through the corridors. I disliked this part of the trek, not because I didn't get the point, but because Jesus wasn't evident--which I suppose was the point.

 My heart became engaged at the scene of a teenager's suicide. The young man playing this role effectively portrayed the depth of pain that accompanies suicidal despair. We walked through the story beginning at its end: A teenager has killed himself after enduring years of abuse from his father. His mother has chosen escape. His girlfriend cares, but isn't committed to him enough to stay faithful, and his best friend collapses in a drunken stupor. The sad irony, we discovered, is that the young man misses a message from his absent mother that may have changed his mind--that may have given him just enough support to alter his choice. Impressively, the organizers of the House chose not to pass judgment, announcing that "only God knows where souls go."

 After the suicide scene, the focus shifted to human souls condemned to hell, not by God's will but their own. These depictions were not of classical "bad people" who terrify the masses; rather, they were of men and women who followed the golden rule book of good living most of the time, but who lacked a meaningful spirituality and, as a result, any solid desire to be godly-minded.. For Christians, living well begins with a relationship with Jesus Christ. I experienced an epiphany in this section of the house, reminded that how one lives, specifically how one treats others,  is a choice. Mistreatment can be regretted, repented, justified, excused, even forgiven, but it can never be taken back.  Damage need not be permanent, but scars remain.

 I had avoided the scary faces by looking down, but the  human depictions made me uncomfortable.  In a  sense, hell could be any place love isn't, and the heartbreak of such a place is unfathomable. As I walked, voices suddenly arrested my attention, chains rattled, arms reached toward me. A young woman pleaded, "Look at me! Help me! I was a good person! I gave to the poor! I don't deserve this! Look at me!" But I didn't look. I didn't want to see. 

 I turned my head and kept walking. Like the mother portrayed earlier, I wanted escape. I didn't want to witness this portrayal of pure complacency. I pushed my husband forward, the young woman's unsettling echo forcing my thoughts to war with my heart. I thought about how long it had been since I truly stepped outside of myself into service of others, or spoke beyond a standard greeting on my way to somewhere or someone "more" important. No matter what one's faith, it is too easy to attend a programmed service for all the wrong reasons, only engaging in our tradition.  It's too easy to look away and keep living without thought for others who may benefit from a simple, caring gesture. 

 At the end of the House of Horrors, we were guided into a large room where the air conditioning worked better. Enjoying the cool air, I anticipated the ending "sermon" and the comfort of my Camry. Suddenly, a door opened behind me, and three young men entered: two cast as Roman guards, and one as Jesus. I don't remember ever being this close to a depiction of the crucifixion before. I could have touched the cross and the actors. They were speaking, but I could only concentrate on the voice calling out, "Look at me! Look at me!"  I watched the cross until we were asked to move forward, hesitating as long as possible.

I didn't agree with all of the theology, but the experience caused me to see chunks of personal selfishness and to realize how insidious it can be. It grows slowly, rotting  in  the spirit until one day, nothing else but negativity and its first cousins are remembered and voiced. Heavy weights of distrust, hyper-skepticism, and self-indulgence  motivate and epitomize such a person, who consistently barrages him or herself and others with a hopeless, fear-fed outlook.That life trap is indeed horrific.