Horror, Witchcraft, and the Media: A Discussion with Sarah Lyons

Witchcraft has always held a complex and multifaceted role in the media, shaped by historical shifts, societal anxieties, and evolving cultural values. From its early associations with fear and the supernatural to its more modern depictions as a tool for empowerment, witchcraft has undergone a significant transformation, especially in the hands of creators who draw from both personal experience and scholarship. Sarah Lyons, a Brooklyn-based witch, filmmaker, and writer, offers a unique perspective on this transformation. As the author of “Revolutionary Witchcraft: A Guide to Magical Activism” and the director of the horror film “The Woods”, Lyons delves into the intersections of witchcraft, horror, and media representation in a way that challenges conventions and deepens our understanding of both genres.

 The Evolution of Witchcraft in Popular Culture

Lyons begins by reflecting on how witchcraft has evolved over the years, especially within popular culture. "Witchcraft has gone through so many changes in the last couple of years alone," she observes, pointing out how Wicca, once the dominant form of modern witchcraft, no longer holds a monopoly on the practice. "I remember when I was growing up, what people knew about witchcraft, what I knew about witchcraft, was like Wicca," Lyons explains. Wicca, a modern pagan religion that emerged in the mid-20th century, became synonymous with witchcraft for many people, largely due to its prominence in popular media and the public imagination.

However, as Lyons notes, Wicca is only one facet of a much broader and older tradition. "Wicca is not what witchcraft has historically been," she emphasizes, pointing to the resurgence of interest in other forms of magic and occultism in recent years. This resurgence has been fueled by a wealth of new scholarship, podcasts, books, and media that explore the diverse and often radical history of witchcraft. For practitioners like Lyons, this shift has been liberating. "I think it's a very exciting time to practice witchcraft," she says, highlighting the increased visibility and accessibility of different traditions and perspectives.

At the same time, Lyons acknowledges the tension between the commercialization of witchcraft and its more subversive, underground roots. "There's the capitalist cooption of it," she says, referencing the way witchcraft has been commodified in recent years. The rise of "witch kits" in retail stores, social media influencers promoting witchy aesthetics, and the commercialization of occult symbols have made witchcraft more accessible but also more consumer-driven. "I appreciate and am more in favor of witchcraft being what it is now than what it was a decade or two ago," Lyons adds, but she remains wary of the ways in which capitalism has diluted its radical potential.

Witchcraft in Media: The Fantastical vs. the Real

Media portrayals of witchcraft have long oscillated between fantasy and reality, a theme Lyons explores in depth. As someone who grew up watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Charmed, she understands the appeal of fantastical witches on screen. "There's something to be said for the fantastical and fun," she admits, acknowledging that these media portrayals often spark curiosity and wonder about real-life witchcraft. Shows like Sabrina the Teenage Witch may not accurately reflect the nuances of witchcraft, but they provide an accessible entry point for many people, especially young viewers.

Yet, Lyons is also critical of the tendency to reduce witchcraft to a simple metaphor for empowerment, especially in modern media. "With a lot of stuff in media these days, it feels like we've decided what's empowering and what's not empowering," she observes. While witchcraft can certainly be about empowerment, Lyons argues that it is far more complex than that. "The word 'witch' is a gender-neutral term," she points out, highlighting the diverse cultural and historical contexts in which witchcraft has appeared.

Lyons’ own work seeks to explore this complexity. In her book Revolutionary Witchcraft, she examines the radical potential of witchcraft as a tool for political and social change, challenging the mainstream narrative that often equates witchcraft solely with empowerment for women. Instead, she delves into its anti-authoritarian roots and its potential as a form of resistance against oppressive systems.

Horror as Catharsis: The Power of Fear

In addition to her work as a writer, Lyons is also a filmmaker, and her film The Woods explores the psychological and emotional depths of horror. For Lyons, horror is a genre that offers unique opportunities for catharsis. "Fear is one of the most primal human emotions," she explains, and horror films allow audiences to engage with that fear in a controlled environment. "Horror relies on the body," Lyons says, emphasizing the physical and visceral nature of the genre. Unlike many other forms of art, which tend to prioritize intellectual or aesthetic experiences, horror is deeply emotional, often provoking powerful reactions in viewers.

Lyons also believes that horror is one of the most creatively free genres. "You put something a little spooky in there and you can talk about anything," she says. Horror, by its very nature, allows filmmakers to explore taboo subjects, challenge societal norms, and push the boundaries of storytelling. "You can set it in any time period. You can tackle any matter. You can cast any people you want," Lyons notes, pointing out that few other genres offer this kind of creative freedom.

Despite its emotional and creative power, however, horror is often marginalized in the world of "high art." Lyons notes the tendency for horror films to be overlooked during awards season, even when they feature standout performances or innovative filmmaking. "I think it's interesting that those genres that deal foremost with the body—horror, comedy, erotic fiction—are pushed to the side because of that reason," she says, observing how the cultural gatekeepers of "high art" often privilege intellectualism over emotional engagement. For Lyons, this is a false dichotomy. Horror, she argues, is just as capable of offering profound insights into the human condition as any other genre—perhaps even more so, given its ability to tap into our most primal fears and desires.

Witchcraft and Horror: A Subversive Intersection

The intersection of witchcraft and horror is particularly fascinating, as both are often seen as subversive forces that challenge societal norms. Witches, especially in horror films, are frequently portrayed as dangerous, malevolent figures—symbols of chaos, destruction, and the unknown. But as Lyons points out, witchcraft is also a source of power, especially for those who have been marginalized or oppressed. "The witch, in this context, becomes a figure of resistance," Lyons says, someone who challenges the status quo and refuses to be controlled.

In horror films, witches are often depicted as ambiguous figures, neither wholly good nor wholly evil. This ambiguity, Lyons suggests, reflects the complexity of witchcraft itself, which cannot be neatly categorized or defined. "Witchcraft isn't a defined thing. It's ambiguous," she explains, and this ambiguity is part of what makes it so compelling, both in real life and in media. It defies easy categorization, existing in the liminal space between good and evil, power and fear, magic and reality.

In The Woods, Lyons explores these themes of ambiguity and power, using horror as a vehicle to delve into the psychological and emotional depths of trauma and the human condition. The film follows a group of characters as they confront both external dangers, past traumas and their own inner demons. By blending elements of folk horror with psychological thriller, Lyons creates a narrative that is as unsettling as it is thought-provoking, offering viewers a glimpse into the darker, more mysterious aspects of humanity.

Conclusion: Witchcraft, Horror, and the Media

Sarah Lyons' work as a writer and filmmaker challenges conventional portrayals of witchcraft and horror, offering a more nuanced and multifaceted exploration of these themes. Lyons' reflections on witchcraft, horror, and the media invite us to reconsider our assumptions about these subjects. Witchcraft, she argues, is not just a symbol of empowerment—it is a dynamic, evolving practice with deep historical roots and radical potential. And horror, far from being a lowbrow genre, offers a powerful space for confronting our deepest fears and desires. In both cases, Lyons sees the potential for transformation, liberation, and, perhaps, a little magic.

Written By Jai LePrince

Photography by Eva Tusquets

What Changing Seasons is Like When You Struggle With a Mood Disorder

“Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower, but only so an hour.”

I never liked that poem by Robert Frost. It’s too pretty. It’s too glamorous. It’s too formulaic. It’s too banal. It’s too simplified. It’s too black-and-white (or too green-and-gold—rather). Everything that he says I always knew biblically. It wasn’t until I knew it personally that I started to take issue with that poem. 

There’s green and gold and black and white, but in reality it’s all gray.

“Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief.”

I can assure you that if Frost suffered from a mood disorder, no poem he wrote about changing seasons would have rhymed and sounded like it came straight out of a nursery rhyme. I’d rather turn to Solomon than to Robert Frost and read Ecclesiastes, and I’m not even religious, but I think he made some better points than Frost and took a nuanced approach about the fleeting nature of things. Good days are a gift. Nothing can be known or predicted. 

“So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.”

It’s not as simple as being able to predict dawn going down to day. It’s unpredictable. Sometimes it’s dawn going down straight to dusk or midnight or dawn staying there for longer than expected. Sometimes dawn was never even gold to begin with.

I can still recall the feeling of my monogrammed comforter from Pottery Barn nestled over every inch of my body in 8th grade. I can recall the sight of the fairy lights I draped on the walls of my room one Fall when I was growing up—an extra iota of light in an attempt to distract myself from the darkness which pervaded my room earlier and earlier each day. Apple cider and Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur and half-decent notes app poetry to try to numb the pain.

I was undiagnosed then.

The weather’s been getting colder which means I’m struggling to even write this. It should’ve been done a while ago. I might need to ask for an extension—another one, I mean—just like 8th grade. I can still feel the burns I would get on my back from leaning against the space heater in my room for hours on end—The Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Hamlet piling up next to me, chapters upon chapters unread, essays due yesterday and the week before and the week before that too. Stained comforters and unwashed hair. Showers that lasted too long when I finally did take them with the water as hot as it would go. I would turn the shower on as hot as it could go and clench every muscle in my body—just to prove I could do it. The burn was intoxicatingly suffocating and there was something so gratifying about it. 

Nearly-absent libido and Winter Candy Apple from Bath And Body Works. The smell of pumpkin but the artificial kind—the kind you would find in a Yankee candle or throughout the shelves of Home Goods when they switch up their stock to Fall-themed goods. Comfort food that’s now uncomfortable.

The other day I switched out my tank tops and t-shirts for sweaters and long-sleeved shirts, yet my hands still reach for the tank tops on the top shelf whenever they get the chance.

I can still hear my mother’s voice in my ear as I’m leaving the house saying “you need to wear a sweater or a light jacket over that. You’re gonna be cold.”

“I’m fine.” I insisted, seconds before stepping outside and holding my breath as my muscles tense and my eyes tear up from the wind. In retrospect, this had nothing to do with oppositional propensities—rather something more internal.

I got on the school bus and listened to the chatter of my peers around me. “I like the fall because I like apple picking and stuff and those little Pillsbury Halloween cookies, but I don’t like the winter because it makes me, like, depressed.” I roll my eyes.

I can feel myself sinking into the leather seat of the bus. I hope no one sits next to me. Right now I feel heavier than the three people combined that are supposed to fill this three-seater—figuratively, I mean. 

It’s only October.

Even writing this feels like I’m doing something wrong—boo-hoo…another white girl is sad. My roommate’s family friend got murdered today. Her husband turned the gun on himself after killing her. Their three children found the body. My friend’s brother just went missing. There’s a war going on. Another white girl is sad. Woe is me. I’m feeling some sort of self-pity-induced-guilt for even writing this. It feels like calling your mom from the nurse’s office in middle school and begging her to pick you up when there’s a person bleeding out next to you. It’s making me feel even worse.

And it’s only October.

Sex is only fun in the summer and the spring, and if I have it during the fall or the winter, it’s usually only to fill a void—a coping mechanism to numb the pain—something that I barely even enjoy.

I don’t like “apple picking and stuff and those little Pillsbury Halloween cookies” like those girls on the school bus in 8th grade because they’re only a sign of what’s to come—and actually of what’s already here. If you think about it, apple picking was the original sin. Maybe Frost was onto something with “so Eden sank to grief”.

Have you ever felt lonely in a room full of people? Have you ever felt like if a tree fell in a forest and a hundred other people were around, it still might not make a sound? And if it did make a sound, Mr. Frost, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a rhyming one.

Have you ever been walking through a grocery store, wondering why everything feels so heavy, so you turn around to take things out of your cart and realize there's nothing inside it?

Have you ever resented people solely for being content because it felt unfair? Some days each child playing ball, each passerby who feigns a smile, each bodega worker who takes 4 seconds too long to scan my items feels like they’re earning a spot on my hit list—can I say that?

And it’s only October.

The toddler being loud on the subway next to me right now is getting on my nerves twice as much as usual. Her mom is too for not controlling her. I’m looking around the train car to see if everyone else is as irritated as I am. The man in a suit next to me is reading Kafka without batting an eye. I don’t think he’s actually reading it, but he’s still able to continue performatively reading it without being disturbed to the degree I am. The woman leaning against the pole in front of me continues to stare down at her phone, scrolling through Instagram. Someone’s phone rings at the other end of the train car. I jerk my head out like a chicken to see who it is. I look him directly in the eye until he silences his phone. Nobody else seems to notice. I’m not usually this irritable.

And it’s only October.

I have more tolerance for the beggars on the train than for people like this.

When the beggars on the street or addicts on the train are ranting and being dismissed by the rest, I am often the only one to truly listen to them. I recognize their abandoned genius and treat their L train diatribes as sermons because oftentimes I see myself in them. 

They’re not crazy. They’re misunderstood geniuses. Watch Good Will Hunting once and you’ll understand. Sanity is nuanced. What is it I said about a tree falling in a forest with a hundred people around and it still not making a sound?

I repeated a fragment of an L train beggar’s brilliance to my friend once and she replied “even a broken clock strikes right twice a day”. I responded, “No, they’re not broken.”

My eyes are struggling to stay open as I’m writing this. I got nine-and-a-half hours of sleep last night. It’s dark outside now. I might have to resume writing tomorrow. I’m in a near-catatonic state of existential dread and avoidance—my stoicism mistaken for reticence by some, but just two weeks ago I was amidst a state of frenetic hyper-productivity.

And it’s only October.

I wish the Parsons students would stop posting pictures of their spiced lattes and links to their Fall music playlists.

To the person next to me, the air smells like Phoebe Bridgers and Girl in Red and ever-changing foliage and tailgates and flannels and trips Upstate and Spirit Halloween and chai (but not chai tea because I hate when people say that because it’s redundant). To me, it smells like the inside of a psych ward. The air smells like memories of 8-year-olds locked in rooms banging their heads against the wall repeatedly and of 4-oz cups of apple juice with a slightly metallic aftertaste because you had to pull the foil back to drink the juice and of monitored bathroom visits and of grippy socks and of the tiny salt and pepper packets for your steamed vegetables—not of this year but of years before and before that and before that too.

My body is a temple—sure, but only one The Sackler Family prays at.

The people telling me that it gets better are only making things worse. When my extended family members recite phrases that sound like they’re walking down the sympathy card aisle of a store without having any personal experience to add, it’s almost counterintuitive. It makes me want to wallow in my own filth even more—merely to spite them.

And it’s only October.

I’ve had days my fingers left an imprint in my hair when I stroked it because opening the shower curtain was a month’s worth of work, and I’ve had days where I’ve had to check if my feet were still on because I made myself too occupied to sit down even for the length of a TV commercial. My emotional state is but a candle in the wind. I have always lived violently—finding myself either begging my eyelids to close or having to nail them open—confiding in my comforter or not having felt its weight in days. In the winter, my comforter is a faded, stained version of the once-cerulean blue it used to be, but I can assure you it was never gold, Mr. Frost. 

My friend asks me if I want to watch Halloween movies. I say no. I don’t like watching Halloween movies and I don’t like watching Christmas movies. Retrospectively, maybe The Grinch was bipolar too. I don’t like holiday music or the sight of the first snow. It’ll just end up in piles on the sidewalk anyway—gray in a day or two. There’s something poetic about it. 

Nothing white can stay. It was never gold. None of it was ever gold.

Nature’s first green was never gold. It was only ever green. There was nothing ever poetic about it. Spring is Spring and Summer is Summer and Fall is Fall and Winter is Winter. How’s that, Mr. Frost?

Written by Lucy Geldziler

Photography by Rose Miller

Talent: Zoë Nadeau @zoeenadeauu , Sophie Gilbert @sophieg32

Running From Shadows

Ashley felt the branches tearing and scratching at her skin as she ran through the forest. She was thankful that the evening sun was still shining even though it was the end of summer. She didn’t know what to do but run. When she saw what he was doing to the girl… what he had done to her, she couldn’t think about that now. She needed to get as far away as possible. She slowed to a walk and tried to catch her breath once she reached the road. Flashes of the day she had clouded her head, she couldn’t think. 

She remembers last night, parts of it, but coming to a dark room woke her with a start. She had stood immediately, beginning to feel the space around her, and stopped when she felt his presence behind her, the darkness keeping her from seeing the room around her. She knew she shouldn’t speak, in that moment her chest was so tight she knew she wouldn’t be able to talk even if she tried. The man shifted so he was in front of her, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her to another room. “Here.” He grumbled and shoved her to the floor. This room was lit, blindingly lit, and made her feel less safe than the dark did. At least the dark was something she was familiar with. This, this sterile room, this felt like her worst nightmare coming true. She had always hated the doctor's office, mainly because of the fluorescent lights, and this was that turned up to eleven. By the time she had collected her thoughts, her eyes were still adjusting to the light. “I wanted to show you.” The man stated and the words made Ashley flinch. She looked around the room, hoping to see where the voice was coming from. “I hope you’ll understand, I didn’t want to show you like this. It was the only way.” The words boomed from the sound system that was somehow connected to the room. Where the hell am I? Ashley questioned herself. What was he going to force her to see? She looked up at the glass panel in front of her and her jaw dropped. She was terrified. 

A rustle from behind Ashley pulled her out of the memory of the night before and nearly made her jump out of her skin. She clenched her fists and forced herself to breathe, trying to remember what she had learned in therapy and her self-defense classes. She tried to take stock of what she had. Her (now dirty) t-shirt from the night before, her torn-up jeans, and her socks. “Fuck.” She whispered to herself. She knew there was only so much time until he realized she was gone, and there was only one thing left to do. Pick a direction and start walking. Ashley began walking through the grass on the side of the desolate road. Not a car in sight. She wondered how long it had been. A day? Had she only been stuck with that man since the previous night or had she been out for longer? She looked around as she walked, trying to identify any sort of landmark that could tell her where she was. Nothing, just trees, and sky, and grass, and road. Ashley was exhausted. Her adrenaline had kept her going through the farmland and off past the forest and onto the road. A road. Any road. That was her goal. She had gotten out. What now? 

Ashley clenched her teeth as she began to open her eyes again. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Through the glass, she saw a girl who had to be around her age, if not younger, tied to a chair with a burlap sack over her head. She was covered in blood so fresh, and dark, that Ashley could barely tell what color the girl's skin was. Her bra and underwear were dyed red. Ashley’s mind began to race. “Why me?” She bellowed at the glass, caving in on herself, using all the energy she had to form the words she knew she needed to say. “Ashley…” The man started “I’m disappointed. I thought you understood me.” 

Ashley shook her head “I don’t even know who you are!” She screamed. She heard him speak again. “Fine.” The man spat, his voice echoing through the speakers “If you want to have it that way. Go.” She heard a click, the door behind her opened, and that’s when she started running. 

The asphalt was tearing the skin on the bottom of Ashley's feet, and still she walked. She checked each side of her, the fear of whoever it was that had her trapped just hours ago was still in her mind. Her mind was still racing but she forced herself to walk, to conserve her energy. Finally, about 3 hours and 6 miles later Ashley almost cried tears of joy as her walk broke into a run when she saw the gas station. She kept running, she was so close, less than half a mile away. She could see herself now, past the gas pumps and trash cans and through the double doors of the 7-11, then into the back of a cop car on the way to figure out who the hell did this to her. When suddenly, she heard the engine of a truck behind her. 

Written by Lucy Anderson

Photography by Mia Scagnelli

Talent: Lauren Bastidas, Ella Malave

MUA: Marlie Kaye