Dancing with the Devil

How do you market Satan? That is the question Dill Murphy tried to answer when he opened Devil’s Paradise in 2002 in Amherst Pointe, Ontario.

At the grand opening, before a sea of anxious press, Murphy called it “[a] theme park for the wicked at heart and mind.” He cut the ribbon, and the park was officially open.

Devil’s Paradise was the first and only (to date) theme park based around the satanic panic of the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Murphy claimed he got the idea after a long night reminiscing with childhood friend about the demon scare that swept the country. “We started talking,” said Murphy, “and as the night went on, I said, ‘Hey, do you remember this,’ and everyone nodded, and laughed, and said, ‘Yeah, our parents went crazy!’ They thought we were going to summon demons by playing [Dungeons and Dragons] and listening to metal. But we had a lot of fun pranking them, and I just wanted to bring some of that back to life nowadays.”

Visitors who came to the park would enter through the Tunnel of Television. In order to take the guests back in time, they walk through a tour of screens playing newscasts from the Satanic Panic. Concerned talk show hosts and frightened parents go back and forth on the recorded broadcasts, discussing what media would- and would not result in children worshiping the devil.

After the Tunnel of Television, guests would arrive at the central hub of the park, where a merry-go-round featuring cartoonish devils and witches greeted them, playing non-stop heavy-metal artists. From there, guests were able to see many of the main attractions. A high-riding roller coaster, the Freight Train to Hell, towered above the crowds, and ran along the northern edge of the park. A drop tower ride, the Fall from Grace, stood to the east. To the west, a ferris wheel, the Ninth Circle, marked the edge of the midway, where prizes could be won by knocking over pins shaped like conservative scare-mongers.

“Our goal,” said Dill Murphy, “is to kill real fear by mocking it. I wanted to say, ‘You think this is who we are? Let me show you how ridiculous that is.’”

At Beelzebub’s Burgers and Shakes, customers could enjoy lunch or dinner. All food served there, as the menu declared, had been “sacrificed to one of the seven princes of Hell, to ensure its quality.”

Across from the diner, stood an arcade, above the entrance of which a sign declared that all players who entered agreed to bet their souls to eternal service, should they lose. A blackbox theater at the back allowed guests to participate in a Ouija board possession show that played several performances every day.

At night, following a fifteen-minute fireworks show, the Pandæmonium dance hall would open. Young adults crowded in, moving to the beat of songs played backwards.

Though the park saw initial success, attendance slowly fell as interest in the Satanic Panic was not widespread enough to sustain a theme park of its scope. In 2006, Murphy pitched an expansion, Millennial Mayhem, that would be themed to paranoia surrounding children’s fantasy books and movies, such as the Harry Potter series. He hoped that the opening might coincide with the release of the final book in J. K. Rowling’s series, set for the following year. Sadly, the park was already in decline by then, and investors didn’t see the value in adding to an already-unsustainable project.

The Devil’s Paradise closed its doors in 2013, after a decade of financial struggle. The small-but-devoted fanbase attempted to save the park with a crowd-funding initiative in 2012. They were only successful in bringing one last surge of attention to the theme park before its demise.

Now, the park sits empty on the shore of Lake Eerie. It has become a popular site for urban explorers and adventure-seeking ne’er-do-wells. Ironically, since its closure, the park has only taken on a greater feeling of being haunted. The old rides and animatronics have begun to rot and crumble. Vandalism covers the interiors of satanic ritual chambers. Pieces of animatronics have been stolen, and their wired guts lie exposed. Dill Murphy has gone on the record to say that he’s sad it didn’t last, but is glad to see his vision continuing to entertain people.

“I look back on it today, and I think we did some good. We said a lot of ‘Hail Satans,’” Murphy remembers with a laugh, “but I think we did a lot of good.”