The Conjuring universe is a weird kind of Hollywood miracle. Eight films over twelve years, billions in box office, a whole expanded mythology of demon nuns and possessed dolls—all built on the backs of two people: Ed and Lorraine Warren. The films present them as the fearless duo standing between us and the abyss, God’s ghostbusters in polyester suits. And because every entry reminds us it’s “based on a true story,” audiences lean in. They like thinking what they’re watching actually happened, even if the details are juiced up for scares.
But the real Warrens? They don’t line up with the glossy image the studio’s been selling. In December 2017, The Hollywood Reporter ran a story that should have changed everything. Buried in court filings was testimony from Judith Penney, who said she started a sexual relationship with Ed when she was fifteen years old. It went on for decades. She said Lorraine knew about it, and that when she got pregnant, Lorraine pushed her into an abortion and told her to cover it with a lie. These weren’t rumors from the edges of the internet. This was documented, reported in a respected trade, at the exact time the MeToo and Time’s Up movements were ripping through Hollywood.
The story hit, and then it vanished. Studios didn’t flinch. Warner Bros. released The Nun the next year, and it went on to become the biggest hit in the series. Then came Annabelle Comes Home, The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It, The Nun II, and now The Conjuring: Last Rites, which just opened with record numbers. For all the talk of accountability in Hollywood, this franchise rolled on untouched.
And that’s the part that sticks. The Warrens weren’t side characters you could write out. They were the brand. Their names were stamped on every poster, their faces dramatized by movie stars, their “cases” turned into cinematic spectacle. When their reputations cracked, the studios had a choice: protect the myth or address the reality. They doubled down on the myth.
Even the contracts made sure of it. Lorraine had it written in that the films couldn’t show them cheating, abusive, or criminal. No matter what came out in courtrooms or interviews, the on-screen versions would stay spotless. That kind of control doesn’t just shape the story, it locks it in amber. Audiences aren’t seeing “based on a true story.” They’re seeing the carefully curated version the Warrens demanded.
What’s maybe harder to swallow is how little audiences seemed to care. The allegations surfaced, and people kept lining up for tickets. Horror fans moved on. Critics treated the franchise like any other long-running series—some good installments, some bad ones, but always another sequel around the corner. The conversation never took off the way it did with other figures exposed during the MeToo wave.
So what does that tell us? Hollywood loves to present itself as reformed, as an industry that took a hard look at its own demons and decided to change. But when the demons are tied to a property pulling in hundreds of millions worldwide, the outrage disappears. The Conjuring films kept the machine fed, and nobody in power had any interest in stopping it.
Twelve years, billions in revenue, and a story that could have derailed the whole enterprise buried under the weight of franchise momentum. The Warrens are still treated like pop-culture saints, and the films keep cashing in. If you want to know what Hollywood values more than justice or truth, the answer is right there in the weekend grosses.
And maybe that’s the real horror of The Conjuring. Not the ghosts, not the demons, not the jump scares—but the way money turns ugly truths invisible.
Hollywood After Dark 