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In the business of scaring the crud out of people, little details matter.
So as we were chatting, Ben Armstrong casually stooped in mid-sentence to pick up a wayward severed leg from the floor of the gift shop of the sprawling haunted attraction he co-owns.
He popped the body part back where it belonged — in the grip of a snarling, bloodied abominable snowman. Which, he volunteered, is just like one he and his wife have in their living room, minus the blood.
“I love to scare people,” the 53-year-old told me.
“I like being a werewolf. I like being a creepy old man.”
Um, yeah. Armstrong and business partner Billy Messina own and operate what should not be confused with a metro Atlanta haunted house. It’s actually more a haunted complex, and it never seems to end.
Netherworld along I-85 in Gwinnett County (though it may be moving) is regularly rated by a haunted attraction publication as one of the best in the nation. It has a seasonal staff of 400, a full-time crew of a dozen, numerous makeup artists and a schedule of training sessions on acting and makeup during the off-season.
Armstrong told me he actually works most of the year, even if the business makes almost all its money over just a month or so in the fall.
Americans will spend about $8.4 billion this year on Halloween stuff, according to a survey by the National Retail Federation. Mostly, is for the cutesy pie stuff: candy, costumes, cards and decorations.
Then there are the people who seek out horror directly.
More than 80,000 people visit Netherworld each season, Armstrong said. Tickets range from $23 to $35 depending on the night and whether it’s a one or two-haunt package (or $55 to also include a pass to skip the lines). Adding an adjoining second haunt area for an extra charge boosted profits big time.
Now, Netherworld is in its 20th season of cashing in on creepy.
A scary success
This is happy. It suggests that if you hit it just right, you never know what odd endeavor can turn into a decent business.
Early on the founders dreamed of having multiple locations, but the prospect was too daunting back then, Armstrong told me. They also wanted to own their own building. (They lease now.)
Recently, the company applied for a Gwinnett rezoning that would allow Netherworld to relocate to a site in the Stone Mountain area along West Park Place Boulevard, according to an attorney's letter with the application.
There are always rivals in the local horror market, including Fear the Woods in Stockbridge, Fright Fest at Six Flags over Georgia and 13 Stories Haunted House in Newnan.
The Netherworld folks might have been destined for this kind of thing. Messina was a special effects artist for TV and film. Armstrong was a studio supervisor for Fox5 TV in Atlanta. Now, his wife works the Netherworld box office, his son programs the robotic monsters and his daughter sometimes works the gift shop.
Scare enough people and you get a bead on the particular group dynamics that evolve inside frightening places, Armstrong told me. There is almost always the offering (the scaredy-cat) and the offerer (the person who shoves the scaredy-cat toward monsters). There’s the brave one. And the ringleader who’s been through before. And the cheery person who points out the craftsmanship of the special effects.
At times I struggled to concentrate on Armstrong’s insights as we chatted near a Netherworld entrance. A slight woman in a frilly dress pranced by with an ax slung over her shoulder. (The actors all make minimum wage.) A spooky dysfunctional clown left a grinding tail of sparks and kept invading our personal space to ask, “Did you just call me?” (Actually, I think this was a real-life employee question.) And we contended with the constant whine of chainsaws being waved at fleeing patrons.
Scary is in the eye of the terrified beholder.
Chapman University in California surveys Americans on what they are afraid of. Topping the list: Corrupt government officials.
Other high performers include “terrorist attack,” “not having enough money for the future” and “government restrictions on firearms and ammunition” which apparently is slightly more frightening than “people I love dying,” according to the survey.
‘Selling a fantasy’
Armstrong rolls his eyes when I suggest he works these themes into Netherworld.
“We are selling a fantasy here. That’s reality,” he said. “People here are having a moment to avoid Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.”
People, he said, crave the cathartic swing between fear and relief, screams and laughter.
“Scaring them is easy,” he said. “You put them in a dark room and make a loud noise. Impressing them is more difficult.”
Patrons are wise to scary eyes that are really just colored contact lenses. They've seen plenty of blood and guts on shows like The Walking Dead, which is largely shot in Georgia.
So Netherworld creates many of its own masks and props. Like an oozy animatronic alien capable of 21 different motions with its spiked fingers, though in the rush I didn’t even see it until Armstrong pointed it out. It cost more than $10,000 to build.
They go for sensory overload. In the darkness I brushed against countless sets of innards and severed heads. Some actors flew at me through the air.
Sound like an insurance nightmare?
Panic attacks happen, Armstrong told me. And there’s your garden variety hyperventilation.
But he was reassuring: “We have multiple paramedics on staff.”
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