Freddie Meade is an American independent filmmaker, cinematographer, and editor best known as the writer and director of the upcoming horror feature A Fetish of Flesh. A proud son of Newark, Ohio, Meade represents a new generation of genre filmmakers who are reimagining horror not through digital spectacle, but through a return to gritty, tactile, story-centered filmmaking. His path to this distinct artistic identity was forged through decades of personal passion, artistic struggle, and an unwavering dedication to horror cinema’s primal roots.
Meade’s fascination with the macabre began early. At just 11 years old, he crossed paths with legendary underground filmmaker Andrew Copp, best known for the surreal and disturbing The Mutilation Man. This early brush with fringe horror left a deep imprint on Meade, awakening a desire to tell stories that unsettle, provoke, and linger long after the credits roll. As a teen, he consumed the works of filmmakers like George A. Romero, Tobe Hooper, and Wes Craven, idolizing the DIY ethos and social subtext embedded in the golden era of horror cinema.
In 2017, after years of building experience behind the camera, Meade co-founded Demented Media with longtime collaborator Timothy MacDonald. The independent studio was born from their shared frustration with mainstream horror’s reliance on overproduced jump scares and CGI effects. Together, they committed to creating “modern nightmares” using practical effects, atmospheric storytelling, and deeply human monsters—both literal and metaphorical. Their work hearkens back to a time when horror was raw, intimate, and often uncomfortably real.
Meade’s most ambitious and defining project to date is A Fetish of Flesh, a deeply personal film that has been in development since 2007. For over 15 years, Meade meticulously shaped the screenplay, ultimately completing twelve full drafts. The result is a story that combines urban legend, true crime, and Southern Gothic horror into one relentless cinematic descent. The narrative follows a group of young student filmmakers who inherit a remote Appalachian cabin once used by a traveling preacher. What begins as a curious inheritance soon turns to terror, as they discover the cabin has become home to a modern-day, cult-like family of killers. Inspired by the cannibalistic lore of Sawney Bean and the haunting real-life events of the Keddie Cabin Murders, the film blurs the line between folklore and contemporary evil.
Meade’s involvement in the film goes far beyond writing and directing. He is also serving as the film’s cinematographer, editor, and casting director, underscoring his obsessive commitment to creative control. He believes horror must be felt as much as watched, and he brings a hands-on approach to everything from lighting design to post-production editing. This auteur-level involvement has earned him praise among horror circles as an uncompromising visionary, echoing the early careers of cult legends like Sam Raimi and John Carpenter.
A Fetish of Flesh is currently scheduled for release in 2026, and anticipation for the film is growing, particularly within independent horror communities. While Meade shuns the spotlight, he has made clear his mission: to challenge the horror industry’s reliance on remakes and franchise fatigue by crafting stories that are unique, subversive, and deeply disturbing. He views much of the current landscape as a "graveyard of resurrected ideas and redundancies," and sees Fetish as a necessary disruption—a return to horror that dares to offend, confuse, and horrify without compromise.
Outside of his filmmaking career, Meade is also notable for his open embrace of alternative lifestyles. He identifies as polyamorous and is in a relationship with Gabrielle Snider, who has also participated in the creative side of his projects. Their partnership is reflective of the same openness and defiance of convention that defines his artistic work.
Though still early in his public career, Meade has already carved out a reputation as a creator who lives and breathes horror—not just as a genre, but as a philosophy. His work is deeply influenced by personal psychology, socio-political themes, and a fascination with human cruelty and vulnerability. His films seek to not only scare audiences, but to confront them with uncomfortable truths and questions that linger beyond the final frame.
Freddie Meade is not just a filmmaker—he’s a craftsman of nightmares, a student of the grotesque, and a tireless advocate for a more dangerous, more daring kind of horror cinema.
Buried Film, Broken Vows: 20 Unholy Questions with Freddie Meade
With his long-gestating debut feature A Fetish of Flesh finally slated for release, Meade is quickly becoming a name whispered in the halls of indie horror — usually alongside phrases like “obsessive genius,” “cinematic sadist,” and “the bastard child of Tobe Hooper and a fever dream.” Meade’s horror sensibility is unapologetically brutal, grounded in real-world darkness, and drenched in the tactile, unglamorous gore of pre-digital cinema. We caught up with Meade from his editing den in Ohio, where he answered our questions with grim humor, disturbing clarity, and zero interest in playing nice.
1. Let’s start with the obvious: Why horror?
Because it’s the only genre honest enough to admit we’re all going to die — probably badly, probably alone, and probably screaming. Horror doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t comfort. It reflects. I didn’t come into this world thinking I’d make rom-coms. Horror was the first genre that felt like home — bloody, broken, and crawling with secrets. It’s the only space in cinema where the truth isn’t just allowed — it’s weaponized.
2. What’s A Fetish of Flesh about in one sentence?
One sentence? Okay — imagine if the Keddie Cabin murders were retold by the last surviving member of the Manson Family… while high on mescaline and filming it on a 1980s camcorder. It’s about inheritance — not money, but trauma. It’s about what happens when artists try to make a film and end up starring in someone else’s ritual.
3. You’ve said this film’s been with you since 2007. What took so long?
Time, madness, rewrites, and poverty — not necessarily in that order. I started the first draft in 2007 when I still thought good horror could be made with a Canon MiniDV and a dream. Twelve drafts and several breakdowns later, I realized it wasn’t just a script anymore — it was part of me. I wasn’t making the film. The film was making me. Besides, I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to get to draft twelve and think, "God, I hate this. It must be perfect."
4. How did meeting Andrew Copp change your life?
Meeting Andy was like finding a torn, blood-stained map to a place you shouldn’t go — and deciding to live there. I was 11. He showed me that horror didn’t have to be slick or safe or approved by a studio. It could be raw, grotesque, and deeply personal. He had this fearless energy. You felt like you were talking to someone who had seen the void — and had filmed it on VHS. That meeting didn’t just inspire me. It gave me permission.
5. You also had a working relationship with Tom “Woodstock” Lee. What role did he play?
Tom was my introduction to what I call the dark art of making movies. Where Andy lit the spark, Tom stoked the fire. He taught me the stuff you don’t learn on set — how to break down a script to shoot with five bucks and a jar of fake blood. He was the executive producer on The Mutilation Man and has this mad-genius energy. Tom didn’t just teach me camera tricks. He taught me discipline, patience, and how to finish what you start even if your cast bails and your best light source is a broken lamp from Goodwill. Without Tom, I’d still be in a garage talking about making movies instead of actually doing it.
6. What’s the most disturbing thing you've ever filmed?
My wedding. Hands down. I shot it myself — tripod in the back of the venue, rolling tape like it was a scene from The Shining. There’s something deeply wrong about watching yourself say vows you don’t believe to someone who looks like she’s practicing taxidermy with her eyes. That woman was the most sadistic villain I’ve ever encountered — charming in public, calculating in private, and completely immune to human emotion. If I ever need inspiration for a cult leader or a smiling butcher, I just play back the reception speeches. That video is scarier than anything I’ve ever written — and yes, I did back it up to VHS, just to make sure it rots the way it deserves.
7. You’re taking on writing, directing, editing, even casting. Why so hands-on?
Because if I don’t do it, someone’s going to try to "clean it up." And horror should never be clean. I’m not a control freak because I love power — I’m a control freak because horror is about tone, and you can lose tone faster than a pulse in a slasher flick. I’ve seen people ruin a perfectly good scream by color grading it to look like an Instagram filter. No thanks. I’d rather bleed with my crew than hand over the scalpel.
8. What scares you personally?
Cheerfulness without reason. People who say “everything happens for a reason” while standing over tragedy. Oh, and children singing in unison. There’s no good reason for that to exist unless you're summoning something.
9. Favorite horror film of all time?
The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. The original. It feels diseased. There’s something beautiful about how ugly it is — the sweat, the panic, the rust. It doesn’t try to entertain you. It dares you to stay in the room. Most horror asks to be watched. Chain Saw dares you not to look away.
10. What modern horror trend drives you nuts?
“Elevated horror,” whatever that means. Horror doesn’t need to be “elevated” — it needs to be honest. Some of the best horror ever made was dirty, mean, and unpolished. If your ghost is a metaphor for late-stage capitalism, fine — just don’t forget to make it scary, too.
11. Do you believe in evil?
I believe in evil the way some people believe in gravity. It’s not abstract — it’s functional. It holds people down. I’ve seen real evil, and it doesn’t wear a mask. It smiles, hands you a cup of coffee, and quietly ruins your life from the inside out. My villains don’t come from Hell. They come from Sunday school. Says to himself: Fucking Father McNeeley.
12. A Fetish of Flesh blends folklore and true crime. Why?
Because both are lies wrapped around a terrible truth. Folklore keeps us afraid of the woods; true crime keeps us afraid of what’s already inside the house. I’m fascinated by how people tell stories to survive the awful things they do — and the even worse things they endure. Sawney Bean and the Keddie Cabin Murders are mirrors of the same fear: what happens when the walls we trust disappear.
13. You’re open about being part of the kink community. Has that influenced your filmmaking?
Absolutely. Kink is about trust, fear, pleasure, control, surrender—all things horror thrives on. It’s also about navigating taboo, often with brutal honesty. When you understand those dynamics intimately, your horror becomes more raw, more nuanced, and way more honest. I don’t do horror that hides behind metaphors. I drag the monster out and ask it what it’s into.
14. Is there a line you won’t cross?
CGI blood. I’ll set myself on fire before I render digital red splatter. If I can’t touch it, it’s not horror. We build effects with latex, corn syrup, and kitchen nightmares. It has to be disgusting in real life — or it doesn’t work on screen.
15. Best piece of advice you’ve ever gotten?
From Tom Lee: “Nobody cares how good your idea is — they care if it works. Finish it. Show up. Bleed on the edit bay if you have to.” That stuck. You can have a genius script, but if it lives in a drawer forever, it’s just a coffin for potential.
16. What’s your idea of a perfect horror villain?
Someone who doesn’t think they’re a villain. The best ones don’t twirl mustaches — they pray. They love. They justify. The worst things in history weren’t done by monsters. They were done by neighbors. Add a little conviction, a tragic backstory, and a blunt object — and you’ve got a perfect killer.
17. What’s your personal horror aesthetic in three words?
Rot. Ritual. Regret.
18. Do you think horror is in a good place right now?
It’s in an interesting place. There’s some great stuff happening, but also a lot of safe, sanitized horror pretending to be dangerous. Horror should never feel like it passed a studio marketing test. It should feel like it escaped something. I want more horror that looks like it crawled out of a basement and less that looks like it got dressed by A24.
19. How do you want people to feel when the credits roll on A Fetish of Flesh?
Unclean. Like they watched something they shouldn’t have. I want them to question whether they enjoyed it — and why. I want a shower and a thousand-yard stare. If you’re smiling at the end of this movie, something inside you is broken… and we’re probably friends.
20. Last question: What would Andrew Copp think of your film?
God, I hope he’d love it. I think he’d shake my hand, light a cigarette, and say, “You sick bastard.” Then he’d ask when I’m making the next one. Andy wasn’t about praise — he was about pushing. I hope A Fetish of Flesh earns a place on the same shelf as The Mutilation Man — next to a half-watched VHS, a jar of fake blood, and a warning not to trust the quiet ones.
Follow Freddie Meade and his team at Demented Media for more updates on A Fetish of Flesh and upcoming projects. Or don’t. Just check your cabin's crawl space before bed.
I'm not sure if there are any untold stories from my community, Debbie Elicksen, but I'll check. Thanks for the idea!