Shelby Oaks – Film Review

Chris Stuckmann’s long-anticipated Shelby Oaks has finally arrived, and it’s a confident, atmospheric feature debut that announces a major new voice in horror filmmaking. Produced with the support of genre veteran Mike Flanagan, the film transcends its YouTube origins to become a chilling meditation on trauma, guilt, and the lingering power of unfinished stories. While imperfect in pacing and structure, Shelby Oaks is a haunting and often deeply emotional supernatural mystery that rewards patient viewers with layered storytelling, eerie visuals, and a surprisingly poignant human core.

Stuckmann’s film expands upon the online mythos of the “Paranormal Paranoids,” a fictional ghost-hunting YouTube group whose found footage investigations captivated internet horror fans. Twelve years after their disappearance, the narrative shifts to Mia Brennan (Camille Sullivan), the older sister of missing investigator Riley (Sarah Durn). When new evidence surfaces suggesting Riley may still be alive, Mia descends into a labyrinth of personal obsession, unearthly forces, and buried grief. What begins as a grounded investigation slowly evolves into a terrifying descent into darkness—both literal and psychological.

From the opening frames, Stuckmann establishes a mood steeped in melancholy and menace. The cinematography by Andrew Scott Baird is dense with shadows and muted light, evoking the sensation of watching old VHS footage where truth and illusion blur together. The sound design amplifies this unease—subtle whispers, mechanical hums, and faint echoes that suggest an unseen presence lurking just outside the frame. Rather than relying on traditional jump scares, the film builds dread through slow, deliberate pacing and an encroaching sense of inevitability.

Camille Sullivan delivers a commanding performance as Mia, a woman haunted not only by her sister’s disappearance but by her own inability to move on. Sullivan carries the film with raw intensity, grounding the supernatural spectacle in emotional realism. Her portrayal feels lived-in and deeply human, reflecting the exhaustion and desperation of someone who’s spent years chasing ghosts—both literal and metaphorical. Sarah Durn, reprising her role from the online series, gives Riley a fragile, haunted quality that complements Sullivan’s performance beautifully. Their limited shared scenes pulse with a tragic, almost spectral intimacy, emphasizing the unbreakable bond between sisters even amid horror.

Brendan Sexton III, as Mia’s husband Robert, provides a subtle counterweight to Mia’s unraveling sanity. His frustration and fear for her create believable domestic tension, reflecting how obsession can corrode relationships. Meanwhile, Robin Bartlett as Norma, the reclusive woman Mia encounters later in the film, steals her scenes with a performance that’s equal parts pitiable and horrifying. Her calm devotion to unseen forces becomes one of the film’s most unsettling elements.

One of Shelby Oaks’ most impressive qualities is its restraint. Stuckmann shows an understanding of the horror genre’s fundamentals—how implication often terrifies more effectively than revelation. He uses atmosphere and suggestion to pull the audience into Mia’s subjective experience, leaving them uncertain of what’s real and what’s imagined. The editing mirrors this instability, shifting between clean, modern footage and corrupted analog textures that make the film feel like a recovered artifact. The use of old media—tapes, cameras, and degraded recordings—adds to the sense of something ancient and malignant threading through modern technology.

Thematically, Shelby Oaks explores grief as both a wound and a lure. Mia’s refusal to accept her sister’s death becomes the entry point for darker forces to exploit her. The supernatural elements never feel disconnected from the emotional throughline; they instead act as metaphors for the ways loss can distort perception and invite obsession. In this regard, Stuckmann’s direction feels spiritually aligned with Mike Flanagan’s influence—using horror as a means of examining human pain rather than just inflicting it.

Visually, the film alternates between grounded realism and dreamlike horror. The abandoned prison sequences are staged with claustrophobic tension, the camera lingering on empty hallways and flickering lights as if waiting for the environment itself to breathe. The amusement park setting later in the film stands out as a grotesque visual poem—its rotting rides and faded colors serving as a decayed reflection of childhood innocence. The production design is meticulous, imbuing every location with history and dread.

Stuckmann’s screenplay is ambitious in scope, weaving found footage elements, investigative drama, and occult horror into a cohesive whole. While some transitions feel uneven—particularly during the film’s second act, where exposition occasionally weighs down the momentum—the narrative maintains its intrigue through mystery and character rather than constant scares. Stuckmann resists the temptation to explain too much, allowing ambiguity to fester where other films might rely on overt mythology. This confidence in subtlety gives Shelby Oaks an uncommon sense of maturity for a debut feature.

Keith David and Michael Beach appear in smaller but memorable supporting roles that add gravitas to the proceedings. David, as a retired prison warden, delivers exposition with commanding presence, grounding the supernatural narrative in grim realism. Beach’s performance as a detective investigating the strange events surrounding Mia’s life introduces an element of skepticism that highlights the story’s tension between rationality and belief.

If Shelby Oaks falters, it’s primarily in its pacing. The deliberate buildup that defines the first hour occasionally risks dragging, and some of the third-act revelations—while emotionally resonant—might feel overly compressed or rushed compared to the meticulous setup. A few visual effects moments also strain against the otherwise grounded aesthetic, briefly breaking the immersion Stuckmann works so hard to sustain. Yet even these flaws are forgivable in the face of the film’s ambition and sincerity.

What truly distinguishes Shelby Oaks from other supernatural thrillers is its empathy. Beneath the demonic symbols and nightmarish visions lies a story about family, guilt, and the ways people create meaning out of tragedy. The horror is never exploitative; it emerges organically from character and emotion. Stuckmann’s background as a critic and student of the genre shows through in his attention to tone, pacing, and subtext. He clearly loves horror—not just as a vehicle for fear, but as a form of storytelling capable of introspection and beauty.

The final scenes of Shelby Oaks resonate long after the credits roll, leaving audiences unsettled but contemplative. Rather than relying on a neat resolution, the film closes with a sense of cosmic unease—a reminder that some mysteries are not meant to be solved, only survived. It’s the kind of ending that lingers, reshaping the viewer’s perception of everything that came before.

In the crowded landscape of modern horror, Shelby Oaks stands apart for its ambition, craftsmanship, and emotional depth. It’s a slow-burn, character-driven ghost story that evokes the spirit of early Flanagan or even The Ring—films where the horror feels deeply intertwined with human fragility. Though not without flaws, it marks an auspicious beginning for Chris Stuckmann’s directorial career and suggests a filmmaker capable of evolving into one of the genre’s most thoughtful voices.

Shelby Oaks is a smart, chilling, and emotionally charged debut that rewards patience with atmosphere, empathy, and genuine terror. It’s a film about loss and obsession as much as it is about monsters—and in that fusion, it finds something rare: horror that feels heartbreakingly human.