The man they call the Butcher crouches in his darkened lair, every muscle in his bare back tensed. He hears nervous laughter, then the approach of muffled voices, but still he waits. His victims are so close he can almost reach out and touch them when, finally, he leaps, brandishing a screeching chain saw and roaring — “Yah! Yah!” — into their horrified faces.
Some of his victims scream, others freeze in their tracks.
Only when the Butcher has chased the last one back into the maze of pitch-black hallways does he return to his secret room behind a plastic curtain, smiling faintly.
“All in a day’s work,” he croaks, his voice hoarse from screaming.
Then he resumes his crouch, ready to do it all again.
Forget for a moment the burned and bloody ghouls, the barbecued human remains, the cascades of vomit, the fluids oozing from the flayed and twitching corpse.
A rare tour of backstage areas off-limits to customers reveals the Dungeon of Doom haunted house in Grayslake as less a seething den of horrors than a well-oiled machine, with dozens of upbeat young actors reporting for duty at 25 meticulously choreographed scenes, their faces slathered with layers of painstakingly applied makeup, their duties dictated by an 8-foot-high, color-coded scheduling chart.
Dungeon of Doom co-owner Tony Relken, 44, a 19-year haunted house veteran who describes himself as “infatuated” with the business, says he handpicks the actors, many of whom return year after year.
“This kind of production is about putting the right person in the right scene,” he says, watching proudly from a hidden room roughly as big as two Port-O-Potties while John Seaman, 19, of Park City, performs the role of the Butcher in the scene “Slabs of Beth: The Slaughterhouse.”
Relken recites Seaman’s acting credentials, which include five seasons at the DOD, as insiders call it, as well as several seasons at Six Flags Great America, where he has played the role of Daffy Duck.
“This is a career for those who are in it as an art,” Relken says. “If you get a D or lower [on your report card], you don’t work for me.”
It takes four workers about 35 days to hand-build the 15,000-square-foot network of darkened dungeons, hallways and horror chambers in an empty poultry/bunny barn at the Lake Country Fairgrounds, Relken says.
And it takes a whole year for Relken, who designs the 22-day seasonal attraction with his business partner and brother-in-law Peter Koklamanis, to obsessively plan and replan every twist and turn and terrible surprise, with the goal of disorienting customers and thrusting them into the heart of the action.
Even the blood is carefully monitored. Koklamanis, 38, who primarily handles the operation’s business side, stops during a pre-show prop check to inspect an exhibit that includes a twitching animatronic corpse with blood pooling beneath the right leg.
Looking displeased, Koklamanis ducks beneath the basin holding the corpse, removing a panel to reveal two buckets, a half-dozen wires and a milk crate.
“I’ve got one [blood] pump that’s not doing its job,” he says.
He’s better satisfied with the “Deliverance Room,” which includes a mutilated mannequin roasting over a fire, complete with smoke rising in pale puffs and the unmistakable scent of charred meat.
“It gives the ambience of a real barbecue,” Koklamanis says proudly.
The actors — about three dozen on a recent night, including high school students, an assistant sales manager for 7Up and a warehouse manager for a tanning bed company — cheerfully submit to layers of custom makeup, which can include wax, cotton, liquid latex, green paint and a colored corn-syrup goo that bears a remarkable resemblance to human blood.
“When I come out and hear everyone scream, I like the rush,” Seaman says.
During a companionable but surprisingly quiet dinner break, the ghouls, gremlins and psychotic killers munch on fried chicken and pluck cough drops from a jumbo bag.
Also on hand, in a first-aid box monitored by Koklamanis’ wife, Jeanette, is extra strength Excedrin and a bottle of throat spray.
Cast member Mark Webb, 33, dressed this night as a priest with a large, bloody cross “burned” on his forehead, surveys the medicinal supplies approvingly. “If you’re not gettin’ a sore throat, you’re not screamin’ loud enough,” he observes.
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nschoenberg@tribune.com
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By the numbers
You can’t scrimp on the fake blood if you want a top-rated haunted house. Consider the stats on the Dungeon of Doom in Grayslake, which expects more than 15,000 victims — er, visitors — this year.
Fake blood used per season in gallons: 5
Actors per season: 60
Actors per night: 40
Actors per night brandishing chain saws: 3
Customers who are too scared to complete the main tour: 1 in 100
Remaining customers who are too scared to complete Buried Dead or Alive: 1 in 20
Years in business: 11
Rating by HauntedIllinois.com: One of the top 10 in the state, 2006
Minutes to complete the tour: 28
Minimum age: 12
Source: Dungeon of Doom
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