Blood, ghosts, and the horror of living between worlds.
It’s funny how life has a way of blending nightmares and daydreams until you can’t tell which is which. That’s my world—somewhere between the sticky chaos of a blood-soaked movie set and the chill of a haunted graveyard where the air itself feels like it’s judging you.
Recently, I had the pleasure (and a little pain) of sitting down for the Horror Pop After Midnight podcast, where I spilled the guts (figuratively, this time) on my life, my work, and my never-ending love affair with horror.
"I Had a Crush on Freddy Krueger"
I’m not like most people. When I was six, my best friend and I sneaked into her brother’s stash of VHS tapes and binged the entire Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th series in one night. Most kids would have nightmares; I had a crush. There was something about Freddy’s charm—creepy, sure, but also magnetic. That glove? Iconic. That attitude? Pure charisma.
To this day, I still credit Freddy with sparking my love for horror. It’s not about being scared; it’s about being seen. Monsters, villains, and final girls—they’re all just reflections of us, right? Twisted, bloody reflections, but reflections nonetheless.
The House That Eats Flesh: A Bloodbath to Remember
When I stepped onto the set of The House That Eats Flesh, it felt like stepping back into the 1980s, when horror wasn’t afraid to get messy. “The bloodier, the better,” as I like to say. We’re not talking pristine CGI gore here. This is the real deal—buckets of blood, sticky floors, and that primal, almost cathartic chaos you just can’t fake.
Josh Graves, our director, is a genius. He handed me the reins not just as the lead actress but also as a producer, which means every drop of blood, every scream, and every ounce of terror has my fingerprints all over it. We shot in this incredible old house in Burlington, North Carolina. Let me just say, the place had energy. It’s one thing to play terrified on set; it’s another to genuinely wonder if something’s lurking behind you.
Living Haunted: Xavier, My Ghost Bus
Ah, Xavier. My home, my escape, my ever-present co-star. For those who don’t know, Xavier is my school bus-turned-tiny-home. It’s haunted, of course—or at least, it feels that way. I’ve poured so much of myself into that bus—every dent, every creak, every shadow feels like a piece of me.
"A haunted bus adds character!"
Xavier even has a way of sneaking into my projects. "Why not?" I tell directors. "A haunted bus adds character!" Whether it’s parked on a film set or cruising toward my next paranormal investigation, Xavier is a reminder that home is wherever the weirdness is.
The Witch’s Path: Banishing Ghosts, Living Freer
Last Halloween, under a blue moon, I performed a banishing spell. Call it witchcraft, call it therapy, call it whatever you want—it worked. I’d been carrying this heaviness for years, like an invisible second skin. When I burned that spell, I swear I felt something lift off me. Since then, I’ve been lighter, freer, and a little more dangerous.
Magic, for me, isn’t about theatrics; it’s about survival. Whether I’m confronting a ghost or an ex who thinks they’re one, I approach it the same way: with fire, sass, and no tolerance for anything that doesn’t serve me.
Mercy Brown: The Vampire That Started It All
If you’ve ever felt the cold hand of history, you’ll know what I mean when I say Mercy Brown’s story stuck to me like blood on skin. She was New England’s first vampire—or at least that’s what the locals thought when they dug up her body and found her "juicy." (It was winter, people. Science wasn’t really thriving back then.)
I visited Mercy’s grave in Rhode Island, hoping to connect with her spirit. I knocked three times on the vault, and to my utter disbelief, it knocked back. That’s not the kind of thing you forget. I even caught a photo of a ghostly hand trying to grab my equipment. Heavy fingers, curling toward me like they had unfinished business. If that doesn’t give you chills, you’re lying.
We Need New Monsters
As much as I love the classics—vampires, werewolves, Freddy, and Jason—I’m starving for something new. Indie horror is the perfect breeding ground for fresh nightmares, and I’m here for it. Let’s see a monster we’ve never imagined, something that crawls out of our collective subconscious and leaves us questioning everything.
Reflections in Blood
Horror has a way of getting under your skin—sometimes literally, if you’re me. But it’s not just about the blood and guts. It’s about what’s left behind. Whether it’s a spirit in a haunted house or the memory of a killer’s grin, the energy lingers. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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