Temporally speaking, October is the conventional costume for horror. But a good argument can be made that January better deserves this mantle—especially on a night that plunged to -25°C, with a sold-out crowd huddling against the animate, bone-chilling darkness of the new year’s hell-birth. And that argument was ably and spookily formulated by Eric Woolfe’s raspy-voiced alter ego Doc Wuthergloom, to launch “Dead of Winter: The First Toronto Horror-theatre Festival”. As the sarcastic, chalk-faced pumpkin spice-skeptic, he explained the festival’s necessity, then as its host and the bridge between its various parts, he gave the evening shape, wit … and bite.
“Dead of Winter” was produced by Eldritch Theatre and Spindle Collective, and staged at Eldritch’s Haunted Red Sandcastle (922 Queen Street East) from January 21–25, 2026. The festival featured two alternating lineups—Night of Terror and Evening of Fear—each a compact 90 minutes of original horror consisting of three short works plus an atmospheric musical interlude. The economy is intentional: as Doc Wuthergloom drily observed, no one ever left the theatre saying, “That was brilliant, but I wish it was longer.”
I saw Night of Terror, which was appealing for its diversity: it felt a bit like curling up in a creaky old mansion with a short-story collection showcasing the range of what constitutes “horror.”
Spindle Collective’s “spilleHOLLE” was first up. The show mines the mythic, elemental terrain of female-forward folklore that the collective has become known for. An early version of the third instalment of their Dark Mother trilogy, it features Kathleen Welch as witch-weaver mother and Natalia Bushnik as daughter in a coming-of-age show about destiny, lineage – and what you have to give up to grow up … and what you gain when you do. Intensely acted, primal, and driven forward by the relentless movement of the on-stage spinning wheel, this one got under my skin.
Up next was Unspoken Theatre’s “The Matchmaker”, featuring a prim psychic matchmaker (Natalie Stephenson) who uses Tarot cards to tease and bully out the true hidden desires of her client Cordelia (Medha Arora). Eyes flashing, Madame Velius memorably advocates for how true love is like an “infestation”—before a surprise ending reveals this to be a cleverly-disguised standard horror story making interesting comments on contemporary relationship realities.
After intermission, musician Andra Zlatescu took the stage for a mesmerizing and moody set. Garbed like a young revenant in Davy Crockett cap, teeth-earrings and a stylish-but-shredded bustier-skirt, she served up guitar-backed original music that sustained and deepened the unsettled mood. Her haunting voice and folklore-inflected lyrics culminated in a stunning singing-saw solo that stopped the room dead. Definitely someone to look up and to listen to again… especially on a moody winter’s night.
The final theatrical work was David Ferry’s “The Hag of Bell Island”, a creepy tale set in Newfoundland, 1966, which focuses on the local myth of the titular witch. The two-hander is built around an intensity-mismatched interview between a laconic local reporter (David Kash) and a desperate, spooked German visitor (Aaron MacPherson). It uses psychology, Christo Graham’s wonderful sound design and Joe Madziak’s set and effects design to deliver a surprise ending that declares a winner in the tug-of-war between folklore and reality.
Overall, the inaugural “Dead of Winter” festival met the January moment with energy, variety, winking humour, and a refreshing lack of pretension. Of course, in the tiny confines of the Red Sandcastle, we watched the sausage being made and unmade as sets were assembled and disassembled between shows (Doc Wuthergloom had a sharp joke ready for that). But at the coldest time of the year—in the deadest part of winter—the festival reminded us of two important things. First, that compelling theatre can be distilled and delivered in small pieces. And second, that horror comes in many forms and from many places, and is as much about what is not seen as what is seen. And that its point is to activate our imaginations, squirm into the squeamish unconscious … and give us a welcome jolt.
Before Doc Wuthergloom banished us with a sarcastic “Now go home”, he and this Night of Terror had made a cogent case for “Dead of Winter” becoming an annual festival. In a city that can feel iced over by habit, “Dead of Winter” warms the blood by chilling it first: proof that midwinter is when – and a cozy theatre is where – horror belongs.
Keep up-to-date with Spindle Collective here and Eldritch Theatre here.
© Scott Sneddon, Sesaya Arts Magazine 2026
