Interview with Internationally Known Author Janelle Schiecke

1. What got you interested in horror?

I have a vivid memory of when I was eight years old, and my oldest brother was watching A Nightmare on Elm Street in our living room with his friends. I was terrified (hiding behind the recliner for most of the movie), but still enjoying the rush of adrenaline from the screams and the eerie score.

At one point, he told me it was okay to look at the screen. When I did, I saw Glen being sucked into Nancy’s bed and that horrific fountain of blood gushing to the ceiling. I high-tailed it out of there, but in the days that followed remembered the excitement of that fear and the sheer creativity of that scene as well.

This stayed with me, and I began to watch more horror movies and read horror books to experience that adrenaline rush again and palpable dread. I’ve always appreciated the depth of emotions that can be explored within this genre and the range of creativity as well.

2. Who is your favorite author?

I have to say my favorite author is Stephen King. Though I love reading other authors as well, I find many of King’s stories so compelling and genuinely scary. I do gravitate more toward his older works, such as Pet Sematary, Misery, and IT.

3. Do you write in genres other than horror?

At the moment, I write solely in the horror genre. In the future, however, I may be drawn to write in other genres as well. I’ve always thought it might be fun to write a thriller.

4. What's your favorite genre to write?

Horror is my favorite genre to write, because it’s what I know and grew up on. I love writing unsettling scenes and playing up that fear factor. It’s also enjoyable to add humor as a buffer to ease tension.

There are so many interesting subgenres in horror to explore as well, which offers a wealth of creative possibilities.

5. How long did it take you to "make it" as an Author?

This is such a great question, and I am flattered to be asked how long it took me to “make it” because I have made an impact as an indie author that I am very proud of. And though I still feel I have a ways to go (and am very excited for what’s to come), it took me about two years to really break through and get noticed. There are so very many talented indie authors, and it can be hard to attract attention in a sea of shining stars. It’s so important to stay genuine and lean into your niche.

6. Do you ever base part of a character on a real person?

Oh absolutely! Many of my characters are based on real people. For instance, the two male characters in Death Cult, Jason and Eddie, are both loosely based on my two older brothers. For this reason, I really enjoyed writing their banter throughout the story.

The characters of Amy and Max in Ghost Room are based on two of my best friends growing up, who I am still blessed to be friends with today. In turn, the main character, Jess, is largely based on myself.

The Clatter Man is fun, because the mix of characters are based on different groups I remember from high school. You had the jocks (Ben and Jamie), the stoners (Dustin), the cool girls (Val), and then you had the more pensive and cautious individuals (Abby).

7. Do you have a process you follow for creating your books?

Great question! I’m sure this answer varies so much depending on the author, but personally I find if there is an idea that simply will not let go, I’ll begin to jot down notes. If these notes are forming a compelling enough story, I’ll elaborate more on possible scenarios and plant more characters in.

Once I’m confident this is something I want to pursue, I’ll begin writing a first draft. This is the tricky part, however, because sometimes that spark fizzles out and I’m left with a few chapters just sitting there. In this case, I’ll just keep them on the backburner. Oftentimes, I’m able to integrate some of those ideas into a new story.

When that spark doesn’t fizzle out with a first draft though, and only burns brighter the more I write, that’s my next book.

8. Has there ever been a character you regretted killing off?

This gets me thinking about Eddie from Death Cult. I love his character, and the brutal circumstances of his death have stayed with me. He sure did go down fighting, though—I wanted his demise to be a memorable one.

10. Did you always like to read horror?

I did! When I was a kid, I read the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series by Alvin Schwartz quite often and began to read Edgar Allan Poe’s works early on as well. There were also other books I enjoyed, such as The Call of the Wild by Jack London and the Choose Your Own Adventure books. For the most part, however, I’ve always enjoyed reading horror.

11. Do you have an author you would class as an inspiration?

I feel Stephen King is definitely an author who inspired me at a young age. Though I watched movies and shows based on his books before I began to read them, I enjoy his writing style and diverse range of stories.

At the current moment, Nick Cutter and Adam Cesare are both authors I’m taking inspiration from.

12. What's your writing process like? Do you outline your books or are you more of a "fly by the seat of your pants" type writer?

I’m a big panster, meaning my ideas mostly come to me as I write. Though I do create very basic outlines for my stories, I find that my best ideas come to me spontaneously. Many times, I’ll be in the process of writing a scene I have included in my outline and it will veer off in a completely different direction. If I enjoy where it’s going and feel it adds value to the story, I’ll follow my muse and continue on that side road to see where it ends up.

13. Do you have a limit as to what you would put in a book and why?

Unless I were writing a wilderness survival story, I don’t think I could ever have a character kill an animal. I’m such an animal lover, and it would break my heart to write this into a story as a callous act.

14. What was your favorite subject in school?

My favorite subject in school was art class. I found it so freeing to express my creativity in such different mediums, and my favorite mediums were painting and sculpture. I enjoyed using tempera paint the most (watercolors were hard for me to work with) and loved painting landscapes. Sculpturing was so fun because, instead of a brush, your fingers were the instruments and I found this to be much more intimate.

15. What advice would you give to others who want to become authors?

The first piece of advice I have is that the road to becoming an author is a long one and takes much patience and willpower. Whether you choose to self-publish or traditionally publish, it’s a ton of work and you really have to want it and have a love for the craft.

Also, being an author requires a lot of marketing. This may seem daunting, but it’s largely about being yourself and building your “brand,” so to speak. I’m a horror fan who loves talking about horror books and movies, and feel so blessed to have made so many wonderful connections on my author journey. Since the horror genre is what I love, it all just fits together.

Love it or hate it, social media is a very helpful tool for getting your name out there and growing an audience. There are so many platforms to choose from, so people can discover which platform (or mix of platforms) works best for them and go from there.

Supporting other authors is crucial as well, and it helps to build your village. My fellow authors are such sources of inspiration and support, and I love celebrating their wins.

16. What's your favorite scary movie?

A Nightmare on Elm Street, and it’s my favorite scary movie for so many reasons.

It’s the first really scary movie I remember watching, so this is significant in and of itself. This movie is also so very creative and the practical effects are still impressive to this day. Plus, there are so many infamous scenes—Glen being pulled into Nancy’s bed followed by that geyser of blood, the bathtub scene with Nancy, the melting stairs, and so much more.

I feel Freddy Krueger is one of the most terrifying monsters ever created. The fact that he can kill you in your dreams? This absolutely terrified me as a kid, and the concept is so effective.

A Nightmare on Elm Street is such a horror classic, and I even took inspiration from this movie when writing The Clatter Man.

17. Do you think more people realize now that women can be good kickass horror writers and directors too? Why or why not?

I do, and with regard to directors the first example I can think of is the success of The Substance by Coralie Fargeat. What an incredible movie that shows such a powerful portrayal of the struggles women face amidst societal pressures. The cinematography and color tones are also beautiful.

So many other talented female directors come to mind such as Kathryn Bigelo, Greta Gerwig, and Sofia Coppola.

What I enjoy about being a female horror author myself is that some of the stories I write are quite violent and gory, whereas I’m naturally a very positive person who enjoys navigating the range of emotions and context horror provides.

There’s such a dichotomy between who I am as an author and who I am as a person.

18. Who did you look up to for inspiration as a younger person?

My mother was my inspiration. She had such strength and resilience, and taught me to work hard and keep my head up through rough times. She also taught me how important empathy is, the art of really listening to others, and the value of being present.

She had such a lovely smile and a warm presence, and was my soft place to fall. I was very close to my father as well, and he had such a great sense of humor and a positive outlook on life. I honor both of my parents in how I raise my son.

My mother instilled in me the love of reading at an early age, and would often buy me Stephen King books as birthday gifts beginning in my teenage years. I treasure these today.

19. Who's your favorite person?

I have two favorite people for different reasons.

My husband has always been so incredibly supportive and loving. He’s also very creative himself and a fan of horror as well, so enjoys giving me feedback on my stories. In addition, he has a great sense of humor and knows how much I love to laugh!

My son inspires me in so many ways. He’s so insightful, creative, and loves to make me laugh too! We enjoy taking walks together and talking about anything at all, though our conversations usually revolve around the stories and creativity of video games and movies. We love to analyze and speculate which elements could have been done differently and which were really effective.

20. What do you think of the recent gains in visibility and diversity we're seeing in horror recently?

I’m really enjoying it, and appreciate the wide range of narratives being told. This shift has provided a deeper understanding of different backgrounds, and it’s helped to bridge a gap and allow everyone to tell their stories and feel seen.

21. When I was younger, I said that women couldn't write horror (I was ignorant). What female authors did you look up to?

Women can write such deliciously dark horror, and growing up I looked up to Anne Rice. I absolutely love her Mayfair Witches series and the eloquence and terror of her prose. She was able to immerse you into a story so deeply you felt as if you were there.

Of course, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is quintessential horror and such a beloved classic.

Though Agatha Christie is not technically a horror author, I’ve always loved the dread and suspense in her writing. My favorite novel of hers is And Then There Were None. What a fantastic story, and she keeps you guessing while also including lighthearted humor throughout as well.

22. Who's your favorite music artist?

I have many favorite musical artists (from Guns n’ Roses to Foxy Shazam and Amos Lee), but if I’m going by which artists I listen to the most it’s Bleachers and Post Malone.

Post Malone is a phenomenal artist, and what range he has! I love how he blends genres, and can’t even count how many times I’ve listened to his album Hollywood’s Bleeding. He also has a great sense of humor, an eclectic style, and a down-to-earth personality.

Bleachers has quite a different style, but I love how nostalgic and atmospheric their music is. Some of their songs are also so upbeat and invigorating, and if I’m in a slump I’ll listen to one and almost immediately feel more energized. One such song is “Modern Girl,” I absolutely love it!

23. What song would you want played at your funeral?

I’d say The Rose by Bette Midler.

I played The Rose at a piano recital as a kid, my friends and I listened to it often growing up, and my mother loved it as well. To me, this beautiful song speaks of the trials and tribulations of life and to also have hope for the future.

I strive to be a source of comfort and support for my family and friends, and believe very much that through the storms of our lives we can move on to calmer waters and discover strength we never knew we had.

Bath Bombs from Jumpy Jellybean's Store

Handcrafted Bath Bombs & Whipped Apple Cider Soap Review

There’s something deeply comforting about using a product that’s been made by hand—something that carries the care, creativity, and time of its maker. The bath bombs and whipped apple cider soap I purchased from this talented home craftswoman are exactly that kind of experience: personal, thoughtful, and absolutely luxurious.

From the moment I opened the package, I could tell these weren’t mass-produced bath products. Each piece was beautifully presented, with that handmade charm that makes you feel like you’re treating yourself to something special. The scents alone were incredible—fresh, warm, and perfectly balanced without being overpowering.

Whipped Apple Cider Soap

The whipped apple cider soap has quickly become one of my new favorites. It’s both exfoliating and moisturizing, with just the right amount of texture to gently polish the skin without leaving it irritated. The scent is heavenly—a cozy, spicy-sweet aroma that immediately reminds me of fall mornings and fresh cider simmering on the stove. What really sets it apart, though, is how creamy and hydrating it feels. After rinsing, my skin felt soft, smooth, and nourished, not stripped the way some exfoliating soaps can be. It’s a perfect blend of comfort and care in one bar.

Bath Bombs

The bath bombs were equally impressive. They fizzed beautifully, releasing a swirl of color and a rich, soothing fragrance that filled the bathroom. More importantly, they left my skin feeling silky and moisturized, with no oily residue—just a soft, luxurious finish that made me want to soak a little longer. You can tell these bath bombs are made with high-quality ingredients and a genuine love for the craft. They turn an ordinary bath into a small act of self-care.

Craftsmanship and Care

What I admire most, beyond how wonderful these products are, is the dedication and creativity behind them. Supporting a hardworking craftswoman means supporting artistry, passion, and heart—and these products absolutely reflect that. Every detail, from the scent combinations to the moisturizing formulas, shows a commitment to quality that big companies just can’t replicate.

If you’re looking for bath products that feel as good as they smell—and that make you feel genuinely pampered—these are worth every penny. They’re not just bath bombs and soap; they’re little handmade luxuries that remind you to slow down, take care of yourself, and enjoy the beauty in small things.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Beautifully made, nourishing, and clearly crafted with love.

2025 October Horror Challenge #53 "Jennifer's Body"

Jennifer’s Body: A Misunderstood Feminist Horror Classic

When Jennifer’s Body was released in 2009, critics and audiences alike didn’t quite know what to do with it. Marketed as a sexy horror-comedy designed to appeal to teenage boys, the film was sold through trailers emphasizing Megan Fox’s body rather than the biting satire that lay beneath its surface. The result was a commercial flop and a critical shrug, yet the truth is that Jennifer’s Body was never meant to be a fantasy for the male gaze—it was a darkly witty feminist critique of the very culture that exploited and misunderstood it.

Written by Diablo Cody and directed by Karyn Kusama, Jennifer’s Body turns the traditional “dead girl” trope inside out. Jennifer Check (played with equal parts menace and vulnerability by Megan Fox) isn’t the helpless victim of horror cinema’s past. She’s a high school girl who becomes the literal embodiment of male fears and desires after being sacrificed by a clueless indie rock band seeking fame. Instead of staying dead, Jennifer rises—hungry not for approval or love, but for flesh. Her victims? The very boys who objectified her.

Subverting the Male Gaze

What makes Jennifer’s Body so fascinating is the way it reclaims horror for women. Kusama and Cody weren’t interested in making another slasher flick with a “final girl” running terrified through the woods. Instead, they built a story that exposes how women are consumed—figuratively and literally—by a culture that sees them only as objects of desire. When Jennifer seduces and devours her male classmates, it’s not just gore for shock value; it’s revenge, catharsis, and metaphor. Each kill is a gruesome commentary on the way the world feeds on young women’s beauty and innocence.

Megan Fox’s performance is key to understanding this subversion. At the time, she had been pigeonholed by Hollywood into playing the ultimate bombshell, the glossy fantasy of films like Transformers. But here, she uses that image against itself. Every smirk, every cruelly playful glance becomes a weapon. Fox leans into the character’s sexual power not to titillate, but to mock the audience’s expectations. Watching Jennifer’s Body through the lens of female rage and reclamation reveals that it’s not about male pleasure—it’s about the cost of being constantly watched.

The Curse of Mismarketing

The tragedy of Jennifer’s Body is that its message was buried beneath a marketing campaign that misunderstood everything about it. The studio’s promotional materials leaned heavily into Fox’s sex appeal, framing the film as a steamy teen horror romp instead of the sharp feminist satire it really was. The trailer practically begged young men to come watch “Megan Fox be hot and evil,” while the actual movie offered a sly indictment of that very gaze. Unsurprisingly, audiences expecting a typical horror-thriller left confused or disappointed, while the people who might have appreciated its social critique—especially young women—never got the chance to see themselves reflected in it.

In hindsight, Jennifer’s Body feels like it was simply ahead of its time. In the late 2000s, mainstream audiences weren’t ready for a horror film written by a woman, directed by a woman, and unapologetically centered on the complexities of female friendship, jealousy, and identity. It took nearly a decade—and the rise of movements like #MeToo—for viewers to return to the movie with fresh eyes. Today, it’s gaining recognition as the cult classic it always deserved to be.

A Story About Friendship and Power

At its core, Jennifer’s Body is as much about friendship as it is about fear. The relationship between Jennifer and Needy (Amanda Seyfried) anchors the film emotionally. Their bond is complicated—part devotion, part rivalry, part mirror. Needy watches her best friend transform into something monstrous, and the horror lies not only in Jennifer’s supernatural hunger but also in how their connection fractures under the weight of trauma and societal expectations. The film’s emotional climax isn’t when Jennifer dies, but when their friendship does. That loss hits harder than any jump scare.

Diablo Cody’s trademark dialogue—clever, self-aware, and steeped in irony—turns the horror genre into a kind of dark poetry. Lines like “Hell is a teenage girl” don’t just sound cool; they encapsulate the film’s thesis. Adolescence is its own kind of haunting, especially for girls told their worth depends on how they’re seen. By making the monster a victim of patriarchal sacrifice, Jennifer’s Body exposes the violence that lurks beneath the surface of so many coming-of-age stories.

Reclaiming the Classic

Over time, the cultural tide has turned. What was once dismissed as shallow or confusing is now praised for its biting social commentary and layered performances. Jennifer’s Body stands alongside other feminist horror films—like The Witch and Ginger Snaps—that reimagine female monstrosity as empowerment. Its humor, gore, and emotional honesty make it an essential entry in the modern horror canon.

In a way, the movie’s misunderstood legacy mirrors its heroine’s fate: beautiful, brutalized, and blamed for something she never chose. But like Jennifer herself, the film refuses to stay dead. It keeps coming back—on streaming platforms, in think pieces, in late-night cult screenings—inviting new audiences to finally see what was always there: a wickedly funny, razor-sharp reflection on what it means to be consumed by others and to reclaim your power in return.

Jennifer’s Body isn’t a failure—it’s a resurrection. And like all great horror stories, it’s one that lingers long after the credits roll, whispering to anyone who’ll listen: maybe the monster was never the girl at all.

2025 October Horror Challenge "52 "They/Them"

The Haunting Reflection of Horror: How They/Them Triggered Memories of Pine Rest

Horror has always been a lens through which I navigate fear and trauma, allowing me to confront danger from a safe distance. As someone who survived institutional abuse, I have relied on horror movies as a coping mechanism, using them to explore fear, powerlessness, and survival without being fully overwhelmed. The Peacock original film They/Them struck me with a force unlike anything I had experienced before. Its depiction of a conversion therapy camp mirrored aspects of my own lived experience, evoking both validation and intense psychological discomfort. Watching the film brought buried memories to the surface and forced me to confront trauma that has shaped my life for decades. To fully understand why They/Them impacted me so profoundly, it is necessary to contextualize my own experiences with institutional abuse and coercive therapy.

My Experience at Pine Rest

At seventeen, while in foster care, I faced a perilous situation at home. My probation officer considered sending me back despite repeated threats to my life from my brother. In a desperate attempt to protect myself, I took an entire bottle of pills, reasoning that if I survived, I would remain under supervision and avoid being returned to an unsafe environment. This led to my hospitalization and subsequent transfer to Pine Rest, an inpatient therapy facility in Grand Rapids, where I endured what they termed “reparative therapy.” The facility claimed it could “cure” deviant behavior, targeting not only my history of self-harm but also my gender-nonconforming presentation. The therapy itself was a combination of mind-control tactics and coercion: I was forced to write lines hundreds of times, obey arbitrary rules, and accept punishment for asserting autonomy. The methods were less about helping me heal and more about enforcing compliance and control.

One night at Pine Rest crystallized the terror and humiliation I experienced there. While attempting to adjust a shower curtain with a wire coat hanger, I was confronted by orderlies, accused of having a plan to harm myself, and escorted to the so-called “quiet room.” There, stripped naked and vulnerable, I faced Dr. Masterson, the head psychiatrist. He berated me while quoting Bible verses and threatened forced medication if I continued to cry. Eventually, I was coerced into taking a combination of powerful antipsychotics and tranquilizers. The psychological and physical disempowerment of that experience—being completely at the mercy of authority figures who could manipulate, punish, and humiliate at will—remains vivid in my memory, even though a dissociative fugue has erased some details. Attempts to report potential sexual assault were dismissed; the adults who should have protected me sided with the perpetrator. The trauma was compounded by the knowledge that no one believed me and that the abuse was normalized within the institution.

Connection to They/Them

They/Them brings these horrors into the cinematic realm, dramatizing a conversion therapy camp where authority figures wield coercive control over vulnerable teenagers. The movie mirrors the power dynamics I experienced at Pine Rest: arbitrary rules, threats of punishment, enforced compliance, and rituals meant to “correct” the natural behavior of queer and gender-nonconforming youth. Specific scenes—such as teenagers being isolated, punished, or coerced to comply with religiously framed rules—resonated deeply with my memories of sitting naked in a sterile room, crying under the scrutiny of a man with the power to dictate my reality. The tension, fear, and helplessness depicted on screen brought my own trauma vividly to life, forcing me to relive the psychological and emotional weight of institutional abuse.

Emotional Impact and Validation

The emotional response I experienced while watching the film was intense and multifaceted. I felt fear, anger, sadness, and grief—emotions that are typical for trauma survivors when confronted with reminders of abuse. Yet alongside these painful emotions, there was a profound sense of validation. Seeing a fictionalized representation of conversion therapy and institutional coercion confirmed that my experiences were neither imagined nor isolated; they were part of a broader, systemic problem that affects many vulnerable youth. Horror, in this case, allowed me to confront the truth of my trauma while providing a controlled environment in which to do so. Unlike my time at Pine Rest, where control was taken from me, watching the film allowed me to observe, process, and reflect with agency.

Representation and Social Implications

The film also underscores the importance of media representation for survivors of abuse. Conversion therapy, especially in institutional settings, is rarely depicted in mainstream media, leaving many survivors without validation. They/Them challenges that erasure, portraying not only the terror and abuse of such camps but also the resilience and humanity of the survivors. For someone like me, who endured coercive control and humiliation, seeing my experiences mirrored on screen was simultaneously triggering and affirming. It reminded me that while the abuse I suffered was deeply personal, it was also part of a larger societal problem, and my survival is a testament to resilience rather than weakness.

Moreover, They/Them invites reflection on the psychological mechanisms that allow survivors to endure trauma. Horror has long been my coping mechanism, a way to externalize fear and confront it safely. The film intensified this process, forcing me to navigate memories that had been compartmentalized or suppressed through dissociation. Each moment of tension, punishment, or threat in the movie echoed the real-life fear I experienced at Pine Rest, highlighting the lasting impact of institutional abuse on survivors’ mental health. It also emphasized the importance of acknowledging trauma rather than silencing it; in the movie, as in life, surviving abuse requires both awareness and resilience.

Beyond personal resonance, the movie prompted reflection on broader social issues. Conversion therapy, particularly in institutional settings, is a practice rooted in coercion, fear, and the suppression of identity. My experience at Pine Rest demonstrates the devastating effects of such environments: the erosion of autonomy, psychological trauma, and the lasting struggle with self-blame and shame. They/Them functions not only as entertainment but also as social commentary, shedding light on systemic abuses and validating the experiences of survivors. The film’s portrayal challenges audiences to confront uncomfortable truths about how vulnerable youth are often failed by the very systems designed to protect them.

Conclusion

In conclusion, They/Them impacted me more strongly than most horror films because it reflected the very real horrors I endured at Pine Rest. Its depiction of coercive control, punishment, and conversion therapy brought buried emotions and memories to the surface, allowing me to process them in a way that was both terrifying and validating. Horror, as a genre, has long been a tool for navigating trauma, but this film was different: it forced a confrontation with the past while affirming the reality of my survival. By representing the systemic abuses of conversion therapy camps, They/Them offers both a mirror for survivors and a warning to society, highlighting the dangers of institutional control and the resilience of those who endure it. The film reminded me that the trauma I survived was real, that my responses were human and valid, and that despite the abuse I endured, I continue to live, reflect, and bear witness to these stories.

2025 October Horror Challenge #51 "Tarot"

Tarot is a film that wears its symbolism on its sleeve and invites the audience to do the same: to shuffle through images, meanings, and moods until a pattern — or a warning — emerges. At once intimate and uncanny, the movie trades in quiet dread rather than jump-scare theatrics, choosing instead to let its imagery and performances slowly insinuate themselves under the viewer’s skin. The result is a film that rewards patience and reflection, one that feels less like a narrative punch and more like a slow-reading of a deck that keeps rearranging itself.

On the surface, the plot of Tarot is deceptively simple: a small cast of characters are drawn together around a set of mysterious cards whose presence disturbs the surface reality of their relationships and histories. The movie resists the temptation to spell everything out; it offers fragments — an exchanged glance, a lingering tracking shot, a recurring card — and trusts the viewer to assemble the meanings. That obliqueness is both the film’s greatest strength and its occasional frustration. When the movie is working, ambiguity deepens into atmosphere; when it missteps, it can feel coy.

Visual and stylistic choices are where Tarot really stakes its claim. The cinematography approaches the cards as objects of both intimacy and menace: close-ups linger on texture and edge; shallow depth-of-field pushes faces into dreamy half-focus; and a muted, almost monastic color palette lets pops of crimson, gold, or faded blue command the frame like talismans. The director uses composition like a reader uses spreads — arranging figures and props so that every frame feels like a deliberate layout, a photograph meant to be interpreted. Slow dolly moves and extended takes enhance the sense that the camera itself is riffling through the lives of its subjects, looking for correspondences.

The sound design and score also deserve praise. Rather than relying on a chirpy theme or aggressive stinger cues, the film opts for an ambient, textural soundscape: low drones, distant bells, and a shifting, almost breathing undercurrent that makes silence feel populated. When music appears, it rarely underscores emotional beats directly; instead it tends to comment obliquely, adding layers to scenes without telegraphing their meaning. The cumulative effect is that the movie’s aural world becomes as tarot-like as its visual one — suggestive and resonant rather than prescriptive.

Performances are lean and measured throughout. The actors avoid melodrama, choosing instead to embody characters who are careful with their expressions and speech. This restraint is essential to the film’s mood: in a story about interpretation and projection, small gestures matter. A slight change in a smile or a hand’s hesitation does heavy narrative lifting, and the ensemble trusts the camera to catch those micro-choices. If there is a single standout, it is the lead who anchors the film with a presence that is equal parts fragile and determined; their performance gives the film a human center that makes its more surreal moments feel earned.

Thematically, Tarot plays at the intersection of fate and agency. The cards in the movie function on several registers: as catalysts for action, mirrors for character, and metaphors for the ways people attempt to organize chaos into story. The film is skeptical of simple superstition — it never posits the cards as an external magic that forces action — and instead suggests that ritual and symbol have the power to reveal latent choices and desires. In that way, the movie becomes less about prophecy and more about confession; drawing a card is a way for a character to confront what they already suspect or fear.

What makes the movie linger after the credits is its interest in interpretation — not only of cards, but of other people. Several scenes feel like exercises in reading: characters study one another for clues, misread intentions, and retrofit memories to match a new narrative. That social hermeneutic is where the film finds its modern resonance: in a culture saturated with images and explanations, how do we know when a story is real and when it’s a consoling fiction? Tarot suggests that the line is porous, and that the attempt to fix meaning is, paradoxically, a profoundly human act.

Pacing may be polarizing. The film deliberately avoids procedural momentum; it does not rush to reveal its secrets, and many scenes are allowed to breathe long after a conventional screenplay would have moved on. For viewers accustomed to plot-forward storytelling, this can feel diffuse. For others, the slow-burn approach is precisely the point: the film wants you to dwell, to return to earlier images with new associations, much as a reader revisits a card spread. The patience required is not passive; it activates the viewer’s curiosity and interpretive faculties.

There are moments where the film’s ambiguity feels like a strategy rather than an aesthetic necessity — scenes that end on evocative but inconclusive notes, or plot threads that are hinted at but never fully examined. These choices will annoy some and delight others. Personally, I found that the film’s willingness to withhold answers encouraged repeated viewing; each return offers new connective tissue. Yet, had the screenplay tightened a few arcs or offered clearer emotional payoffs for certain character choices, Tarot might have retained its mystery without occasionally drifting into neat vagueness.

Production design is another quiet hero. Set pieces, props, and costuming carry their own vocabulary: the cards themselves are treated as crafted artifacts, and the domestic spaces the characters inhabit feel lived-in and symbolic in equal measure. Small details — a stained tablecloth, a child’s drawing, an old photograph — become indexical, yielding narrative clues without becoming heavy-handed. This tactile attention grounds the film’s more metaphysical impulses and makes its symbolic flourishes feel earned.

Contextually, Tarot sits comfortably among recent films that privilege mood over exposition and thematic suggestion over plot resolution. It is not a genre exercise in the conventional sense, nor is it strictly arthouse; rather, it walks a liminal line, borrowing from both to create a hybrid that will appeal to discerning viewers who enjoy cinema as puzzle and poetry. Its strengths lie less in immediate thrills and more in the compound resonance of image, sound, and performance.

In conclusion, Tarot is an evocative film that rewards careful attention. Its achievements are many: striking cinematography, nuanced performances, and a thematic core that interrogates how humans make sense of uncertainty. Its limitations — a pacing that demands patience and a fondness for ambiguity that occasionally borders on withholding — will determine whether viewers fall in love with its mysteries or walk away wanting. For those willing to be read, to sit with questions rather than answers, Tarot offers a richly textured cinematic experience that lingers like a remembered dream.

2025 October Horror Challenge #50"I Know What You Did Last Summer"

I Know What You Did Last Summer (2025) — A Review and Reflection 1. Revisiting Summer: From the Novel to the Original Film

The 2025 version of I Know What You Did Last Summer arrives as both a tribute and a retread, resurrecting a familiar premise first born in Lois Duncan’s 1973 novel. In her book, Duncan spins a suspenseful, character-driven tale: four teens — Julie, Ray, Helen, and Barry — cover up an accidental hit-and-run and are later terrorized by ominous, anonymous notes warning that someone knows their secret. Unlike a slasher, there is no fisherman with a hook in the novel; the menace is psychological, not physical. Duncan herself was deeply critical of later film adaptations for their sensational violence.

The 1997 film, written by Kevin Williamson and directed by Jim Gillespie, reimagined Duncan’s contemplative mystery as a classic ’90s slasher. Instead of a moral reckoning, the characters are stalked by a masked “Fisherman” wielding a hook — a decidedly more visceral threat than anything in the book. This change not only heightens the tension but shifts the tone: what was once a story about guilt becomes a spectacle of survival. While the movie was never hailed as masterful horror, it found its audience as a slick, campy slasher. Its legacy is inseparable from its era, riding on nostalgia, jump scares, and a memorable villain.<>

2. My Childhood Connection: Reading the Novel as a Little Girl

I first encountered Duncan’s I Know What You Did Last Summer when I was quite young — maybe in middle school. To my younger self, the book was both thrilling and terrifying in a way that few stories were. It wasn’t graphic, but the weight of secrecy, the question of moral responsibility, and the slow-building tension stayed with me. Duncan’s prose moved quickly, and I remember reading late into the night, turning pages on the edge of my bed, heart pounding.

Back then, I had no concept of slasher culture; the idea of a Fisherman with a hook was foreign to me. Instead, I fixated on the “who sent the note?” mystery, on what it means to do something terrible and then pretend it never happened. That innocence made the book’s emotional stakes feel real. Re-reading it years later, I was struck by how little had changed about myself: I was still drawn to tension, to secrets, to the question of whether the past can truly be buried.

3. Christopher Pike’s Chain Letter — Uncredited Echoes

As I grew older, I also devoured teen horror novels of the ’80s and ’90s, including Christopher Pike’s Chain Letter. Though Pike certainly has his own voice, there is no denying thematic overlap: in Chain Letter, a group of young people receive threatening letters after some dark event, and the suspense escalates as the chain continues. (While Pike uses more “rules” around the chain letter concept, the core is similar: guilt, anonymous menace, peer betrayal.)

Some readers and critics have accused Pike of borrowing heavily from Duncan’s premise. While I wouldn’t call it plagiarism — Pike’s book is creative, and it resonated with me deeply — the similarities are striking. Yet Chain Letter stands on its own merits: Pike weaves psychological horror with teenage angst, moral dilemmas, and the reality that secrets don’t stay buried. It was a favorite of mine, even if I recognized, in the back of my mind, echoes of I Know What You Did Last Summer.

4. The 2025 Film: A “Requel” With Nostalgia and New Ambition

The 2025 film doesn’t just reboot — it requels. Rather than ignoring the past, it leans into legacy: Jennifer Love Hewitt (Julie) and Freddie Prinze Jr. (Ray) reprise their roles — older, scarred, and haunted by their history. The new protagonists — Ava, Danica, Milo, Teddy, and Stevie — replicate the moral predicament of the original: they cause an accident on July 4, swear secrecy, and a year later, someone is making sure they pay.

This approach to legacy feels deliberate. According to Roger Ebert, the writers hint at deeper themes — corruption, class, and privilege — suggesting that the sins of the past are part of a larger system. There’s also a meta angle: true crime podcasts, power dynamics, and a generational reckoning. But for all its ambition, many reviewers argue that the film fails to deliver on these ideas.

5. Strengths and Missed Opportunities

One of the film’s strongest features is its balance of fan service and fresh faces. Returning stars lend nostalgia, while the new cast brings energy. Entertainment Geekly notes that the legacy actors’ appearances feel “more like fan service than meaningful story beats,” but suggests they do anchor the film emotionally. Madelyn Cline, Chase Sui Wonders, and the rest often shine, but critics argue the script underutilizes them.

Pacing is another common criticism. According to TheMovieBlog, the opening is rushed, the middle drags, and the final act’s payoff feels anticlimactic. Roger Ebert echoes this, calling the editing disjointed and the tonal shifts jarring: some kills are cartoonishly gory; others are emotionally hollow. The cinematography and score are competent but unremarkable, leaning on genre conventions without surprising the viewer. Entertainment Geekly points out that often when the movie tries to signal deeper meaning — through class critique or generational trauma — it retreats into nostalgia and gore. Moreover, the killer reveal and motive do not land for many. Hollywood Insider says the twist is telegraphed yet unsatisfying, calling the script “uneven” in tone. The intention to explore power or institutional neglect feels undercooked. Even when the film teases larger social commentary, it often reverts to slasher mechanics.

6. How the Requel Echoes—And Diverges From—Its Roots

In terms of structure, the 2025 film mirrors the 1997 original: a group of privileged young people makes a deadly mistake, then suffers the consequences. But the requel also recontextualizes that structure. By bringing Julie and Ray back, the film creates continuity — their trauma is not just past, but present. Their survival becomes part of the myth, and their regrets carry forward.

Unlike the original movie, which leaned into slasher tropes exclusively, the requel flirts with a broader palette: true crime commentary, class critique, and the legacy of violence. Yet, as critics note, these ambitions are not fully realized. Roger Ebert argues that the film “feints” at meaning but lacks the courage to fully challenge the structures it hints at. Instead of a clean slasher film or a sharp social satire, the requel resides somewhere in between — and sometimes that in-betweenness feels like diluted identity.

Still, the film gets points for bravery. It doesn’t erase the past; it demands that characters reckon with it. The fact that Julie and Ray have aged, changed, and carry their scars adds emotional texture. And by positioning the new generation against that legacy, the movie suggests that some secrets cast long shadows.

7. Comparing the Requel to the Novel and to Pike’s Chain Letter

From my perspective as someone who read the novel as a child and grew up reading Pike, the 2025 film is the most novelistic of the cinematic adaptations — not because it abandons slasher violence, but because it centers its conflict around legacy, secrecy, and guilt. While Duncan’s original was quietly psychological, the requel ramps up the horror; yet it also channels her deeper themes of regret and moral responsibility more than the 1997 movie did.

Regarding Pike, there’s something almost poetic in how the requel mirrors the structure of Chain Letter even as it hearkens back to Duncan. The letters, the group’s secret, the sense that someone is watching — these are motifs both Pike and Duncan explored, and the new film weaves them together with a self-awareness that feels almost modern. Unlike Pike, who built his own mythology, the 2025 IKWYDLS feels like a conversation with the past: with Duncan’s guilt-driven mystery, with the slasher lineage, and even with Pike’s psychological tension.

8. Personal Reflection: Nostalgia, Growth, and What We Did

Watching the requel felt deeply personal to me. As someone who first read Duncan’s book as a little girl, I saw echoes of the guilt that haunted the teens, but I also felt a longing for more: more risk, more insight, more emotional weight. The movie reminds me that the past is not static — that the choices we made long ago still ripple.

I also felt a pang of disappointment: the requel could have leaned harder into its thematic ambitions. The commentary on privilege, power, and forgotten trauma is tantalizing, but I wished it had more teeth. That said, the legacy aspects — revisiting Julie and Ray, honoring their survival — gave me a bittersweet satisfaction.

As for Pike, I recognized his ghost in the letters, in the secrecy, in the twisted sense that someone is punishing you for what you thought you buried. The requel doesn’t copy Chain Letter; it dialogues with it, acknowledging its influence even as it reclaims the original narrative.

9. Verdict: A Mixed But Meaningful Legacy

Ultimately, I Know What You Did Last Summer (2025) is not a perfect film. It struggles with pacing, tone, and ambition, and some of its thematic threads feel half-baked. Critics have noted that it leans heavily on nostalgia and doesn’t always justify its existence beyond fan service. But it is meaningful. As a requel, it succeeds in honoring its roots — the novel, the original film, the emotional core — while attempting to say something new about history, grief, and the price of secrecy. For me, it’s not just another slasher: it’s a reckoning. If you loved Duncan’s book for its moral weight, or Pike’s Chain Letter for its psychological chill, or the original 1997 movie for its hook-laden thrills, there is something here to chew on. The new IKWYDLS may not rewrite the past, but it asks us to consider how much of that past we carry — and whether ghosts ever truly let go.

2025 October Horror Challenge #49 "Beetlejuice"

“Beetlejuice”: Finding Companionship in the Afterlife of the Imagination

Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice (1988) is one of those rare films that manages to blend the macabre with the hilarious, the gothic with the heartfelt. For many viewers, it’s a bizarre, unforgettable ride through the afterlife; for me, it was something even more intimate. Watching Beetlejuice as a lonely and isolated child, I found in its ghostly world the companionship and magic I longed for but could never quite reach in real life. Burton’s strange and wonderful creation showed me that even the misunderstood, the dead, and the outcast can find their place—and perhaps even their people—somewhere in the in-between.

At first glance, Beetlejuice is a comedy about death, but beneath its eccentric humor lies a surprisingly tender story about belonging. The film begins with Barbara and Adam Maitland (Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin), a young married couple who die suddenly in a car accident and return home as ghosts. Their cozy Connecticut house, once a peaceful haven, is soon invaded by a loud, tasteless New York family—the Deetzes—and their darkly dressed teenage daughter Lydia, played by a young Winona Ryder. The Maitlands are horrified by the Deetzes’ attempts to redecorate and “modernize” their home, and they seek to scare them away. But the Maitlands aren’t very good at haunting, so they turn to a “bio-exorcist,” the wild and chaotic Beetlejuice (Michael Keaton), for help. What follows is a gothic carnival of hauntings, possessions, and otherworldly bureaucracy—all underscored by Burton’s unmistakable visual style.

As a child, I didn’t understand all the adult jokes or the satire of suburban culture, but what I did understand was loneliness. Like Lydia, I was often isolated, cut off from other children and from the normal rhythms of life. I didn’t go to school, didn’t have playdates, and didn’t know what it was like to be part of a crowd. My world was small and silent, filled mostly with books, imagination, and longing. When I first saw Beetlejuice, it felt like someone had opened a secret door into a place where loneliness wasn’t a curse—it was a kind of magic. Lydia wasn’t afraid of ghosts; she welcomed them. She could see the dead when others couldn’t, and that ability made her special rather than strange. Watching her form a friendship with Barbara and Adam felt like watching my own wish come true: the dream of finding kindred spirits, even if they came from the other side.

The ghosts in Beetlejuice aren’t malicious or frightening; they’re simply lost. They’re trying to make sense of the strange, bureaucratic world of the afterlife, flipping through manuals and attending appointments with the same kind of bewilderment I often felt trying to navigate the real world. As a child who had to teach myself things—reading, writing, understanding people—I recognized something familiar in the Maitlands’ confusion. They wanted to do the right thing but didn’t know how. They were, in their own way, like me: well-meaning but out of place. The tenderness with which Burton portrays them reminded me that kindness can exist even in unlikely places, and that sometimes, the most misunderstood souls are also the most generous.

Visually, Beetlejuice is a masterpiece of creative chaos. Burton’s use of exaggerated sets, vivid colors, and surreal design elements creates a world that feels both cartoonish and deeply emotional. The afterlife scenes—complete with sandworms, skeletal civil servants, and waiting-room ghosts—are a playground for the imagination. For me, that imaginative world was everything. It showed that the bizarre could be beautiful, that even the grotesque could be comforting. When I was a child with few real connections, the film’s haunted house became a kind of home for my mind. I wanted to wander through its hallways, to meet the Maitlands and have them teach me how to float above my fears. I even wanted to sit on the couch in the waiting room for the dead, because at least there, everyone seemed to have a story.

What makes Beetlejuice endure is not just its strangeness, but its heart. Beneath the jokes and special effects is a message about family and acceptance. Lydia, who begins the film feeling alienated from her shallow parents, finds love and protection in the ghosts next door. Barbara and Adam, who can’t have children in life, find in Lydia the daughter they never had. Their connection crosses the boundaries between life and death, proving that belonging is not about where you are—it’s about who sees you and understands you. For a lonely child watching from the outside, that message was a lifeline. It told me that even if I didn’t fit in with the living, there might still be a place for me somewhere, with someone.

Michael Keaton’s performance as Beetlejuice is a chaotic force of nature, but even his character, for all his vulgarity and madness, fits into this theme of outsiders seeking connection. He is desperate to be noticed, to be called upon, to be included. In some strange way, his manic energy reflects the darker side of loneliness—the craving for attention that can twist into mischief when left unchecked. Watching him, I understood that loneliness can make you both creative and chaotic, playful and destructive. Yet in the end, the film suggests that redemption, or at least understanding, is possible.

Looking back as an adult, I realize how much Beetlejuice shaped my imagination and my empathy. It taught me that the strange parts of ourselves aren’t something to hide—they can be sources of connection. It also reminded me that family doesn’t have to mean blood relations; sometimes, it means finding people (or ghosts) who see your light in the dark. Even today, when I hear the opening notes of Danny Elfman’s iconic score, I’m transported back to that first feeling of recognition—the sense that I wasn’t entirely alone, that somewhere out there, even in the afterlife, there might be friends waiting to welcome me home. Ultimately, Beetlejuice is more than just a cult classic; it’s a story about loneliness transformed into laughter, fear turned into friendship, and death reimagined as a gateway to belonging. For those of us who grew up isolated, it offered not just escapism but hope—a colorful, chaotic reminder that even ghosts crave connection, and that maybe, just maybe, they’re listening when we call their names.