“Beneath the Sea, Within the Family”

Silence is the scream that lingers—whether beneath the sea or within the family.

Sometimes you find solace in the flicker of black-and-white shadows or a colorized version, the kind cast by a forgotten horror reel from the 1950s. It’s in these celluloid corners—some call it cheesy, I call it fantastic—where the screamers dazzle, and none more than Faith Domergue. She was discovered at sixteen by Howard Hughes, ushered under contract into the labyrinthine halls of RKO Radio Pictures before any of us drew breath. She belongs to another era, but on nights like this, she’s alive in the glow of my screen, her terror echoing through time.

I dialed up It Came From Beneath the Sea, a sci-fi horror that scratches the right itch when entertainment is a necessity, not a luxury. The plot is classic: a gigantic, wrathful octopus, mutated by mankind’s nuclear hubris in the South Pacific, rises to destroy San Francisco’s beloved Golden Gate Bridge. Watching that steel icon collapse beneath writhing tentacles is nothing short of top shelf. Ray Harryhausen—the master, the legend—breathed life into the creature with stop motion magic, his artistry transforming the city’s landmarks into playgrounds of chaos. The Ferry Building Tower crumbling, panicked crowds fleeing, some crushed beneath the radiated beast: it’s horror, elevated.

There’s an added pleasure, almost nostalgic, in glimpsing San Francisco’s skyline as it stood in the 1950s. The Telephone Building and the Russ Building—places I once haunted for a handful of temp assignments—loomed over the city then, silent witnesses to the mayhem below. The streets, the architecture, the fear—it’s all preserved, a snapshot from a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

Horror remains a sharp-edged escape, the perfect retreat when the world outside grows too familiar.  It Came From Beneath the Sea delivered on every front, immersing me in a cinematic nightmare where escape was possible only by confronting the horror head-on. The film's relentless tension and evocative imagery drew me fully into its world, making the outside fade away. In those moments, surrendering to the spectacle—a city under siege, the terror writ large across familiar streets—became a form of relief. Sometimes, you have to lose yourself in another world to remember why you keep returning to this one; the act of immersion serves as a reminder of reality’s value, even when it’s filtered through shadows and screams.

Recently, I returned to Hulu, lured by a six-month free promotion through Optimum. I’d sworn off serialized storytelling—especially anything stretching beyond two episodes, having already endured eighteen years of Edge of Night—but this time, I made an exception.

My latest viewing choice is Murdaugh: A Death in the Family, a series about another kind of monster from the deep. It’s been streaming since October, and after just one episode, I’m hooked. The character development stands out, not because it’s crafted from fiction, but because these figures are drawn from real life—individuals thrust into the public eye by a string of murders and the trial that followed. That connection to actual events adds a layer of fascination, as the series peels back the headlines to reveal the personalities beneath.

Despite my initial reluctance, the show’s portrayal of the Murdaugh family has proven unexpectedly compelling. There’s something magnetic in the way it animates real people—flawed, tragic, and disturbingly familiar. After just one episode, I find myself immersed, drawn in by the storytelling and the emotional depth given to figures whose lives have played out both on screen and in the public consciousness.

Yes, I’m fascinated by the Murdaughs of Hampton, South Carolina. They were never part of Charleston’s bluebird elite—more ambulance chasers than royalty—but that only makes their story more gripping. Among them, Maggie and Paul stand out. As the soon-to-be victims, they carry a strange poignancy, their presence already tinged with the shadow of what’s to come. Their roles within the family and the events leading to the tragedy lend the narrative a haunting dimension, making them both memorable and mythic in their own way.