mood: “make me blu (feat. WoodzSTHLM)” by ji nilsson
Two Wednesdays before Halloween, I was in my teenage Bible study class. One of the adult youth leaders announced we would be attending a haunted house. I immediately said, “NAWL,” in my head but became less apprehensive after the youth leader said it was a “Christian” haunted house. In hindsight, I should have never let my guard down for the sake of Christianity. But seriously, who hears “It’s a Christian haunted house” and doesn’t think, “Why not go? How bad could it be?” So I – me, Victor – signed up to go to what I thought would be a blood-washed, Holy Ghost-filled house of horrors.
A guy like me, who is not fabricated for fright, does not belong in a spook shack where lights dance on and off without any distinct rhythm and people with paint on their faces and limbs growing out of their chests appear next to you out of nowhere. But alas, that Godforsaken Wednesday before Halloween became the day I would loathe the holiday, and everything it stood for, for eight years to follow.
My youth group and I made it to the haunted house, which if my memory serves me correctly was on the grounds of an actual House of The Lord. Surely that was an indicator that all was right and everything would continue to be fine. And it was. Except that it wasn’t. Upon first stepping into that satanic trap, I saw… I don’t even know what I saw, but it had me wanting to call Jesus up on the mainline so I could tell him to have that sweet chariot swing low and carry me home. I’m not embarrassed to tell you that at one point I was so scared, I grabbed the person’s hand in front of me not knowing who it belonged to and not caring that it was probably a guy’s. I am embarrassed that it happened.
As we made our way through the house, there were skits featuring physical abuse, alcoholism and suicide, but the worst part? Sir Lucifer, first of his name, king of the bottomless pit, ruler of darkness (also known simply as Satan) greeted us after getting off an elevator ride down to hell. He was dressed like a D-list celebrity with his latest in turtleneck + blazer combo fashions and he spoke with all the suaveness of Fabio. He. Was. SCARY.
Walking through that imitation of hell was my personal hell. There, we saw people who were burning in the lake of fire and shackled in chains behind a jail cell reaching out to us for salvation. I know I didn’t look like Jesus. Couldn’t have. Jesus walked on water and told peace to be still. I was trembling in my tighty whities. I wanted so badly to just close my eyes and teleport the heck up out of there, but I knew it wouldn’t work, so I powered through.
At the end, we finally made it to heaven and I have never been more excited about being metaphorically dead in my life. It was over. I had finally made it through my first and last temple of trepidation. I was SHOOK. I was also upset that the people responsible for running that place of panic had the temerity to call themselves Christians. What business of yours is it to scare the daylights out of people? ME more specifically? I’m pretty sure Christian haunted houses are worse than regular ones because these want to package you up and ship you off to hell if you’re 1) not already saved by grace or 2) not signing up to accept Christ at the very end. I went home that night and had to sleep on the couch in the game room because it wasn’t secluded and had a TV large enough to produce light so strong, it was like a night-light. I felt like God could protect me better there. Or something. Whatever.
For a year and a half after that, and I’m not even using hyperbole here, I slept with a lamp on in my room, which reminds me: sorry Mommy and Daddy for the light bills during that period. Hope you understand.
I only had two nightmares about that night that I can recall, but I was on edge for way too long. I was psychologically damaged in the name of Jesus.
This year, I started off hating Halloween, just as I had every year since 2007. I’m not sure what happened, but about a week ago, my heart changed and I went from hating the idea of Halloween to reaccepting the concept of it and many of its customs. But be not deceived, I’m still sensitive to the last day of October. It’s still screw haunted houses henceforth and forevermore, so if you’re thinking about asking me to tag along, don’t even waste your energy. I’m not the one, the two or the three.
Happy Halloween, though!