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Hell House Script: The Abortion Scene 
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Now in its fourth season, the ORIGINAL Christian haunted house spooktacular is as popular and as controversial as ever. It is the brainchild of ALCC Associate Pastor Rev. Keenan Roberts, a P.T. Barnum of fundementalism if ever there was one. Roberts boasts that the Hell House attraction has had 20, 000 guests with about 7, 000 Christian conversions resulting from the show. That's a sales rate any Saturn dealer would be proud of.
After four seasons, the ALCC has its act down cold. To keep things fresh and interesting, they even add and subtract some horror "scenes." This year, for example, the abortion simulation (see addendum) and AIDS funeral are out and Monica Lewinsky and Marilyn Manson are in. The show is put on by "actors" drawn from the ALCC flock and they are all actually pretty good--except for the guy who plays Clinton. The performers' names and likenesses are not released to the public for fear of reprisals. The paranoia extends further: If you try and call the ALCC with your number blocked, the call will be refused.
Perhaps for some of the above reasons, the real fear involved in the Hell House experience is not what transpires DURING the show, but what happens before and after the show. After the skeptical ("No cameras, tape recorders, cell phones or beepers!") orange safety vested guides assist you in finding a parking space, you are directed to the box office. There an overly friendly cashier takes your seven dollars (six if you've brought canned goods for the needy). You then walk to a crowded area inside the lobby and join the long and winding rope-line to Hell. I find myself surrounded by hormonally active Christian teens; earnest parents; and young Christian adults who seem to be proselytizing AT each other. Not unexpectedly there are also a few pagans in the mix. On this particular evening the pagans happen to be a Goth couple who draw furtive and not-so-furtive stares from the true believers. The young Goth lady is dressed in something from the Emma Peel collection. To add insult to blasphemy, she sports a scandalous hint of alabaster cleavage. Her escort--also dressed in black--has his face made up to look like that of a decaying corpse. They are tolerated, I muse to myself, because, perhaps spiritual redemption awaits them at the end of the line. Standing here, I am reminded of waiting in similar lines throughout high school. I attribute this striking déjã vu to the early '80s hair styles and stone-washed denim that this crowd seems to favor. More than the fashion choices, though, the ALCC itself looks and feels like a high school auditorium on Theater Club premiere night. There is an undeniable juvenile excitement in the air. The wait to get in is roughly an hour. A highly trained, T-shirted staff keeps things moving as fast as is humanly possible. About twenty people are allowed in to each tour of Hell House. Children under ten are not permitted admittance. I ponder the incredible precision that is evident in just the crowd management. The ALCC people, who are monitoring each tour group's progress through the attraction, buzz back and forth and whisper into their walkie-talkies. The Goth couple remains blank-faced. At 10:00PM we are escorted into the initial stage of Hell House by staff holding usher flashlights. We are pointed to our seats. Almost immediately after we sit down, a man dressed in black dances out of a papier-mache pit that is painted to look flaming. A spot light follows him as he slithers toward us. A Heavy Metal beat pounds in the background. Soon he speaks to us in an electronically altered voice that recalls Mercedes McCambridge's famous voiceover from "The Exorcist." Exactly what this guy is saying is difficult to accurately report. It seems he is Satan's spokesman "Sin" and he is spouting the evil party line. At one point he kisses his right index finger and says his "sting is sweet." He seems to like to "vogue", too, if you remember that fad. And while I am enjoying this, I am desperately hoping that there is more to Hell House than a vogueing satanic angel. It IS a long drive from the real Hell, Los Angeles, after all. Soon "Sin" moves back to the pit and passes the tour guide baton to two witches. As the witches cackle and dance forward, "Sin" recedes into the pit. Bye Sin. With this transfer of power, the REAL show begins. After a brief introduction, the witches move Stage Left to a character who, heretofore, has been waiting patiently in the dark. The teenage actor is sitting at a computer terminal with a cot behind him. I surmise this to be his "room," but some posters would have helped. He is a high school student named Travis who is obsessed with Marilyn Manson AND the Internet. We are told that Travis is a loner, owns a gun and was recently dumped by his girlfriend. Uh-oh. As the Heavy Metal soundtrack volume pumps up, the witches goad Travis into going to his school's cafeteria to massacre his former friends. Travis obliges and approaches his suddenly freed-from-the-shadows peers. They are pantomiming the act of gossip. He points the gun at them and a deafening BANG is heard. Four or five high schoolers hit the ground. The witches helpfully explain that Travis's homicidal rage was prompted by the music and influence of Mr. Manson. To drive this point home, a Manson lookalike - in white long johns - dances out of the hell pit. I have a feeling this will be an image that will haunt my dreams for some months to come. While the faux Marilyn dances menacingly, we are rousted from our seats by the orange-vested ushers and led to the next "scene" by the witches. "Welcome to birth control of the 21st century!" the witches yell as they hurry us into a room that is decorated to look like a womb. The sound effect of a beating heart is supposed to reinforce the theme. A distraught woman in her twenties walks on to the prenatal "stage." She is taunted by the witches for having had an abortion. While this bizarre conflict unfolds, an older audience member in the front row - visible to everyone - very deliberately unwraps and pops some Juicy Fruit gum into his mouth. A succession of actresses of advancing age walk on to portray the woman's child and tell her what MIGHT have been. The first incarnation is an adorable 5-year-old blond girl who asks plaintively "why did you kill me, mommy?" The woman tries to reach out to the child, but is restrained by the witches. The kid exits Womb Right. The second version is a teenager who complains that by being aborted she missed a great Sweet 16 party. The third is a bride who shows up with a hunky groom who looks oblivious to the prospect of wedding a non-entity. The last is a woman who is older than the would-be mother. The elder lady explains that she would have grown up to be a first grade teacher who "touched many lives" and spread the word of God. The mother breaks down in a convulsive fit of tears while the witches laugh and tell her that she had made her "choice" and that she would have live to with it. We are hustled out as the woman continues to sob. Our next stop is a classroom where a portly satanic professor (who looks and sounds like "Cheers" barfly George Wendt) is instructing his minions (played by black-hooded children) on how to spread the "lie" that homosexuals are "born gay." One key, we are informed, is to get the "media" in on the "hoax." The media's culpability in all things evil is a theme repeatedly thumped here in Hell House. As we exit the room we are yelled at to dial "1-800-666-HOMO" to get more information. I get the feeling the AIDS funeral scene from last year's show would have been more subtle. An actor posing as a Secret Service agent greets us at the door to the next exhibit. Before letting us in, the witches tell us that no one is exempt from temptation - not even the President. Oh boy. We eagerly shuffle in and see a recreation of the Oval Office complete with an ersatz Clinton speaking on the phone: "Look, Mike (McCurry?!), I don't care what you do, just make me look good! Like you did during that Jones fiasco!" Behind this actor, who neither looks nor sounds like the present chief executive, are women in tights wearing gold picture frames around their heads. They are supposed to represent temptation, but they make me think of Mummenshantz. A short time later the only African-American actress to be seen in the Hell House production appears. She is portraying the world's most famous secretary, Betty Currie. "Currie" escorts a certain beret-hatted, blue-dress-wearing temptress into the president's lair. The moment the door is shut, Lewinsky and Clinton start necking wildly while - you guessed it - Heavy Metal music pulsates. The Temptation Dancers gyrate around the pair while lusty graffiti is projected up on to the walls with green light. The witches try to hurry us out, but the crowd rubbernecks to see if Bill and Monica are still making out as we exit. They are. The Hell House literature encourages us to "pray for our president." Out of the frying pan and into the fire: A passion play entitled Date Rape awaits us in the next room. Teen characters Blake and Amber (apparently resurrected from the earlier cafeteria shooting) are seen behind a screen in a living room set. They are cuddling on a couch. Empty booze bottles are scattered around them on the coffee and end tables. Blake becomes increasingly amorous until Amber pushes him away. Blake drunkenly rants that because he provided Amber with a wonderful evening he deserves sex. Blake mounts a thrashing Amber and covers her mouth with his hands. Behind them TV screens flash headlines about date rape and we are told by the witches to move on to the next scene. The actors continue to struggle as we file by. Full-blown Hell is our next stop. Just before we enter, one of the witches says to the Goth Girl, "You look like you're half way to Hell anyway!" Goth girl manages a weak smile. Hell is a very smelly place because of all the theatrical smoke. It is also a very noisy place, because of all the cries of the damned. I try to STROLL through Hell and take everything in, but the witches are trying to get us all to RUN through Hell because they don't want to overtax the actors. Everywhere I look there are crouching men, women and children yelling up at me and begging for help. Strobe lights are flashing and, if I'm not mistaken, Heavy Metal music plays. A girl is playing with Dungeons and Dragons in one corner, a drug addict is shooting up and crying "I only tried it once!" in another corner. Well, you get the picture. The last stop in Hell proper is an audience with the becaped and behorned Beezlebub Himself. He is a squat, Lovitzian figure who prefers black loafers to cloven hooves. As the group approaches, he appears to be berating and lashing a writhing Jesus on the cross. Upon closer inspection, Jesus is wearing light blue boxer shorts. Satan starts bellowing a rambling speech while Christ dutifully continues writhing. At one point the devil stops and looks me straight in the eye and demands "who are you going to serve, me or Him!?!" He pauses in locked stare as if waiting for an answer. I almost reply, "I'm with you, sir" but he moves on to other topics. Topics such as his pride in creating homosexuals, the media and other "perversions." When he returns to whipping the Savior, two burly angels with fluffy, oversized wings finally arrive and subdue the beast. The witches flee. A door opens and!We are pushed into the FINAL scene - HEAVEN. "Heaven" is a predictably bright, white room with lots of shiny tin foil. It is hard to compete with Hell for sheer entertainment value and Heaven falls a little flat. Christ, miraculously cleaned up, is presiding over the joyous reunion between the would-be mother and the little girl from the earlier abortion scene. The mother is permitted this privilege because she has repented and confessed her sins. Once the reunion is over, Jesus scoots the little girl off to a special, even shiner room in Heaven. Jesus assures the mother - and US - that all little aborted souls come to this special place in Heaven. The mother is now embraced by the Almighty and, it would seem, our one-hour tour is ending. But wait! The orange-vested people lead us from Heaven into a more mundane setting: A large office with conference tables. The door shuts loudly behind us and for the first time this evening I am truly frightened. Is this some sort of intervention? We are told to sit down and fill out the Hell House Outreach cards. While we do, an impossibly happy Christian guy talks about how great our lives can be if we turn them over to Jesus. The Goths smirk at one another as they fill out their cards. Christian Guy adds that if any of the scenes disturbed us or reawakened troubling memories, prayer counselors are ready to assist us further in the adjacent room. I want to take advantage of this special offer, but eventually decide that my desire for earthly alcoholic refreshment is a more pressing need. The office door is once again opened and on our way into the hallway we are offered Hell House brochures, a schedule of ALCC Sunday services and even appointed times for baptisms. As we exit back out to the cold Colorado night, the parking lot is even more packed and the line to get in longer. It is now 11:00PM and the Hell House Players all have at least one more show to do. The thought of crashing their cast party briefly crosses my mind. Hanging with Satan, Jesus and Marilyn Manson would be the perfect capper to a perfect evening. Then I take a glance at the army of orange-vested people and conclude that breakfast with Chelsea Clinton would be a likelier event. Bye Sin. |
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If you've heard about Halloween Christian fright shows in your tri-state area, chances are the idea started right here. The idea being business savvy Christians USING Halloween to scare the unsaved straight and make a few bucks in the process. As the ALCC promo material states, "Hollywood is bold, so we must be bold." And bold they are.
In the last three years, Roberts has also sold about 300 Hell House Kits (scripts, video and audio effects) for $199.00 a piece. But for anyone who has witnessed the real McCoy, it is difficult to imagine a franchise ministry improving upon Roberts's handiwork. After all, once you've been to the original Pizzeria Uno in Chicago, the one in Atlanta suffers by comparison.
