A different way to Boo

I can't believe it's almost time for Halloween. It's one of my favorite times of the year, and not just because it's a great excuse for indulging in way too many sweets. (Note: other favorite times of the year include Thanksgiving, Super Bowl Sunday, Christmas-time, and my birthday. No one gives me any shit about stuffing my face.)

When I was younger, I was always into being scared. I couldn't find a haunted house scary enough, a zombie gory enough, or a movie disturbing enough to satisfy my appetite for horror. (I'm realizing now that I've always had an insatiable appetite; be it for food or some kind of feeling.)

Luckily, one year I found a haunted house that would change my life forever, and my brother's as well.

It was like 1993 and I was a junior in high school. It rarely snows in El Paso, but this year it snowed like crazy the night that I decided to head down to the haunted house everyone was talking about. My brother loved hanging out with me and my friends, and this night was no exception. We brought him along, and headed over to a warehouse off of Gateway East. My brother was about 11 or 12.

A couple of things you should know before I start: we're Mexican, we were raised Catholic, and we believed pretty much everything our parents told us, until like, yesterday.

We waited in line (in the snow) with my friends for about 3 hours that night and were finally let in to the haunted house at about midnight. They were letting people in in groups of about 10, and the only thing we knew about the thing was that it was being put on by a non-denominational Christian church.

Yeah, I said church. How scary could it actually be?

As we walked inside, my stomach dropped. I felt like I was actually on a roller coaster, and had just reached the top of the scary drop. There was a moment where I thought about turning around, which is weird, because nothing could actually scare me when I was 17. But something felt totally wrong in the place. Maybe it was the uniformed person leading us in--I mean, why wasn't he in a costume or something? Maybe it was the fact that I realized I was actually bringing my little brother into this creepy warehouse on midnight on Halloween. I mean, haunted house or not, that's kind of scary.

Our guide lead us to an area that was segmented off, and it looked like there was a little set and some actors standing still under a barely-there glowing light. Once the group was settled, the lights brightened just enough to see the actors' faces. There was a couple on the couch, and they looked about 16 years old. They started making out, slowly at first, and then they got a little heavier.

"Wait, I don't think we should," said the girl. "My mom said it's a sin to have sex before you're married."

"If you love me, you'll do this," said her boyfriend.

They kissed some more, and before you knew it they were having sex. At least, it was implied that they were. I was totally confused. This did not feel like a haunted house. What was happening?

Our uniformed guide led the group around the corner to another scene. The girl we just saw having premarital sex was laying on a table in a doctor's office, alone. She was crying as she said, "He said he loved me..."

A tall, lanky doctor walked in to the room. He was wearing a surgical mask and didn't speak. He performed an abortion as the girl yelled and cried.

We continued through the "haunted house" and were presented with a potpourri of "sins" for the next half hour: drinking, drug use, suicide, gang-joining, and finally, Satan worshipping. This was the grand finale. We were brought right into hell, flames and all, and were witnesses to the Devil himself.

I don't remember talking, or even screaming. I just held my brother's little hand and walked through the warehouse, too afraid of what would happen if I tried to break away from the group. My friends were like statues, neither looking away or at each other.

When the torture was finally over, we were seated in a small, well-lit room and handed brochures that gave us detailed information about the church who had put on the fun. They asked us to lower our heads and pray, and as my brother and I lowered our heads, I whispered to him,"Don't pray, Ruben. Don't listen to them." Forever obedient and trusting of his older sisters, he obeyed.

I felt so proud of myself for catching them before they could brainwash us completely. I felt like I had saved my brother.

To this day, he hasn't forgotten. We laugh hysterically when we think about how crazy that was, and how much I truly believed I had stopped something horrible from happening. Like somehow, praying would have sealed the deal, and we would be destined for hell. Only Catholic prayers were real prayers, after all.

It wasn't until years later that I realized the impact my actions and words had on my brother. I didn't walk away from that experience thinking that churches were fucked up or brainwashing institutions, or that I was wrong about what a "real" prayer was, or even that I shouldn't have premarital sex. (Ahem.)

I walked away realizing that I couldn't ever take back all those things I said or did in front of my brother. They would always be something that affected the way he thought or behaved, and that I had no idea what the hell I was talking about. I mean, I still probably don't! But I had helped shape him, and that was both wonderful and horrifying.