It Feeds introduces us to Cynthia Winstone, a clairvoyant psychiatrist, and her daughter Jordan as they face a parasitic demon that feeds on trauma. From the outset, life-and-death urgency pulses through every frame: a young girl’s scars and desperate knock at the door set in motion a battle for survival and the legacy of psychic gifts passed down through a grieving family.
Chad Archibald’s script welds supernatural horror to psychological thrills, marrying jump scares with moments of genuine unease. The mood shifts effortlessly—from hushed, candlelit séances to sudden, strobe‑sharp cutaways—mirroring the fractured minds we’re invited to enter. Jeff Maher’s cinematography paints each memory sequence in muted blues and reds, while Daniella Pluchino’s creature design transforms suffering into a midnight‑black silhouette whose clawed fingers evoke a jazz‑infused improvisation of terror.
Premiering at Panic Fest 2025 and landing on National Canadian Film Day, It Feeds carries the indie torch high, spotlighting a handmade aesthetic often lost in studio fare. Its “Inception‑lite” psychic sequences channel dream logic à la Truffaut, and the mother‑daughter relationship anchors the supernatural in empathetic stakes. With an award‑winning demon at its core, this film stakes its claim as a cultural artifact—an homage to genre roots with enough fresh angles to keep even mainstream audiences on edge.
From Calm to Chaos: Plot Structure & Synopsis
It Feeds opens in Cynthia Winstone’s sunlit home‑office, where she guides patients through buried memories. Her daughter, Jordan, hovers nearby—empathetic and eager to help, even as her mother warns of psychic dangers. When Riley Harris appears at their door, arms marked by fresh scars and eyes wide with terror, the film shifts gears. That knock signals a crossing point: a polite consultancy becomes a life‑or‑death scenario.
Jordan’s refusal to turn Riley away triggers the first true glimpse of the demon. Sharp edits and skewed framing capture Jordan’s shock as the creature’s jet‑black form materializes. Tension spikes when Randall Harris, Riley’s father, whisks her back—leaving Cynthia and Jordan to grapple with guilt and unfinished business.
Midway, Cynthia ventures into the demon’s lair: a red‑soaked mindscape that recalls Godard’s jump cuts and jazz improvisations, each image riffing on fear. Here, backstory emerges in fragments—her husband’s untimely death, the inherited psychic “curse” that binds mother and daughter to this work.
The final act alternates between frantic physical struggle and surreal mental combat. In the real world, broken furniture and stifled screams underscore the threat’s urgency, while in the subconscious realm, traumatic memories become weapons. Jordan’s emotional breakthrough—recalling a childhood moment of loss—provides the key to weaken the entity. A sudden cut to a closed coffin, then back to daylight, marks the climax’s turning point.
Key set‑pieces, like the coffin sequence and the finale’s twisted “hellscape,” deliver jolts without giving away every revelation. Viewers can expect a tight escalation of dread that rewards careful attention to both dialogue and visual cues.
Carrying the Past: Thematic Exploration
From its opening frames, It Feeds treats trauma as a living presence. Cynthia and Jordan Winstone carry the weight of a husband and father lost to the very psychic work they continue. That absence shapes every glance and whispered conversation—Cynthia’s professional restraint and Jordan’s fervent drive both trace back to a wound that refuses to heal. The demon itself functions as a mirror of unprocessed grief, its hungry silhouette growing stronger whenever the characters bury their pain.
Family ties shift under that pressure. The film skillfully pits Cynthia’s instinct to shield Jordan against the teenager’s conviction that compassion demands action. I’m reminded of Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, where parental understanding and youthful rebellion dance in uneasy steps. Here, Jordan’s moral compass forces her mother to reckon with choices she once made alone. Their friction doesn’t feel contrived; it echoes real conversations I had at twenty, arguing with my own parents about how best to protect our scars.
It Feeds blurs the line between therapist and warrior. Scenes where Cynthia “jailbreaks” a client’s memories raise questions about consent and collateral harm—a nod to French New Wave’s willingness to challenge narrative ethics. Those sequences unfold like jazz improvisations, each edit riffing on a theme of trust betrayed. Archibald invites us to wonder: when we probe another’s mind, do we heal or exploit?
Genre signposts appear—a trapped‑in‑a‑coffin moment recalling Insidious, a stalking shadow echoing It Follows—yet each homage shifts tone through unexpected color palettes or fractured soundscapes. A red‑lit dream realm feels as fresh as a Noah Baumbach scene turned horror: familiar ingredients rearranged to catch us off guard.
Ultimately, empathy becomes both shield and vulnerability. By filtering scares through Jordan’s point of view, the film ensures our fear is rooted in character, not just creature. When compassion opens a door to danger, it also lights the way to survival.
Faces of Fear: Character Dynamics and Performances
Ashley Greene grounds It Feeds as Cynthia Winstone, shifting from a composed psychiatrist to a mother driven raw by necessity. Her first glimpse of the demon—eyes widening as reality fractures—feels as visceral as the moment Jean Seberg’s Anne is pulled into upheaval in Breathless. Greene nails the sacrifice in the finale, trading safety for her daughter’s survival without a single line of overwrought dialogue.
Ellie O’Brien’s Jordan carries the film’s emotional weight. Her boundless empathy turns reckless in the coffin entrapment sequence: a single handheld shot captures every shudder and gasp, a testament to O’Brien’s unflinching courage. I found myself recalling my teenage self, convinced I could save a friend even if it meant stepping into darkness alone.
Shayelin Martin steps into Riley’s scarred shoes with surprising poise. Her arrival at Cynthia’s door, voice trembling between plea and panic, anchors the supernatural in human pain. When the demon finally looms into view, Martin’s fleeting hope flickers at its edges, making the creature’s hunger all the more harrowing.
Shawn Ashmore’s Randall Harris straddles protectiveness and desperation. In the rescue attempt, a lingering close‑up shows Ashmore’s jaw clench—a father torn between grief and duty. His showdown with Cynthia crackles with unspoken history, every line delivery echoing loss.
Juno Rinaldi as Agatha offers moments of levity that never undercut tension. Her eccentric presence—think a more grounded cousin to Greta Gerwig’s characters—guides Cynthia and Jordan toward truths they’d rather avoid. Rinaldi proves that comic timing can carry emotional resonance.
Even Julian Richings’s brief role enriches the story. As a lore‑bearer warning of hidden dangers, he roots the plot’s mythology in a character actor’s steady gravitas. Together, these performances weave a tapestry where each thread—scared child, grieving mother, defiant teen, haunted father—strengthens the film’s core: survival through connection.
Framing Fear: Visual & Technical Craft
Archibald and Maher lean into tight, claustrophobic compositions during Cynthia’s therapy sessions, as if the camera itself presses in on delicate psyches. In contrast, the subconscious dives burst into wide‑angle, red‑soaked vistas that recall Godard’s playful disorientation—except here, every skewed lens choice amplifies dread. I’m reminded of my first viewing of Breathless, where sudden shifts in perspective felt like jazz solos: unpredictable, charged with emotion.
Brooklyn Marshall’s demon is a triumph of practical effects. Its jet‑black skin absorbs light, punctuated by skeletal claws that seem to carve the very air. Victim makeup—raw, jagged scarification—serves as instant shorthand for anguish, much like the striking visual allegories in Guillermo del Toro’s early work. These tangible horrors sidestep CGI’s polish, grounding the supernatural in something viscerally real.
Set design underscores the duality of the narrative. Cynthia’s home glows with warm, lived‑in textures—soft couches, family photos—while her psychic excursions unfold in cold, industrial chambers. The coffin sequence transforms a simple wooden box into an oppressive character, evoking the kind of oppressive spaces Alain Resnais might have filmed in Hiroshima Mon Amour, yet repurposed for outright terror.
Sound designer Alex Singh wields low‑frequency rumbles to suggest an unseen weight pressing down, then abruptly cuts to sharp tenor notes that jar the senses. Silence becomes its own tool, leaving beats between footsteps and whispered incantations so empty they feel thick.
Editing throughout balances the slow burn of exposition with rapid, staccato cuts during attacks. A scare lands, the edit snaps away, then lingers long enough afterward to let your pulse catch up. Over 104 minutes, the film never feels static, but neither does it exhaust its tricks—each technical choice plays its part in crafting a steady, unsettling cadence.
Crafting the Nightmare: Direction & Screenwriting
Chad Archibald steers It Feeds with the precision of a jazz soloist, weaving raw emotion into each supernatural beat. His trademark “Trauma Horror” puts feeling before flash, ensuring that every scare arises from character pain rather than empty spectacle. Scenes pulse with a personal storytelling heartbeat, making the demon’s presence feel as intimate as a family ghost story.
The screenplay favors economy over exposition. Archibald trusts show‑don’t‑tell, slipping world details into a patient’s trembling hand or a stained photograph. Cynthia’s clipped clinical calm contrasts neatly with Jordan’s urgent, youthful voice—an exchange as natural as banter in a Greta Gerwig scene, yet charged with undercurrents of dread.
Archibald wears his influences lightly. You sense echoes of Insidious in the overall structure and nods to Godard’s jump‑cut energy in the red‑light dream realm. Yet the film stakes its own claim by mirroring the characters’ emotional arcs in every scare. That symmetry—trauma reflected in terror—is a creative risk that pays off, marking Archibald as a director who honors genre roots while charting his own course.
Final Reflections
Chad Archibald’s It Feeds thrives when the Winstone duo wrestle with inner demons as much as the literal one, giving each scare an emotional punch. The jet‑black creature design delivers bone‑chilling dread, while the mother‑daughter bond lends the story a lived‑in resonance. At times, the film leans on jump scares and drifts into melodrama during its quieter moments, but those choices never dull its inventive core.
This is a must‑see for indie‑horror enthusiasts who crave character‑driven chills and fresh spins on supernatural themes. Viewers drawn to explorations of inherited trauma—and fans of strong female leads—will find plenty to appreciate.
Best savored on the big screen, where Jeff Maher’s framing and the sound design can fully envelop you. It also holds up well in a late‑night streaming session, offering crisp, intimate terror whenever you press play.
Full Credits
Director: Chad Archibald
Writer: Chad Archibald
Producers: Chad Archibald, Cody Calahan, Morris Chapdelaine, Doug Murray, Evan Ottoni, William G. Santor, Navid McIlhargey
Cast: Ashley Greene, Shawn Ashmore, Ellie O’Brien, Shayelin Martin, Julian Richings, Juno Rinaldi, Mark Taylor, Laurie Murdoch, Dave Dewar, Christina Beth Hughes
Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Jeff Maher
Composer: Steph Copeland
The Review
It Feeds
It Feeds delivers a tense, emotionally charged supernatural thriller anchored by strong mother‑daughter performances and striking practical effects. Its inventive fusion of trauma and horror breathes fresh life into familiar genre beats, even if the occasional jump scare and soapy moment slightly stall the momentum.
PROS
- Strong mother–daughter dynamic driving the emotional core
- Impressive practical creature design and makeup
- Claustrophobic cinematography balanced with striking dreamscapes
- Thoughtful blend of psychological and supernatural horror
- Engaging performances, especially from Greene and O’Brien
CONS
- Occasional overreliance on jump scares
- Moments of soapy tonal shifts
- Familiar genre tropes sometimes resurface
- Pacing dips during quieter exposition
