It was 92 degrees, the sun blazed like the Eye of Sauron, and somewhere between my third Peppermint Mocha and the second Werewolf I’d seen wearing Crocs, I realized I’d arrived. Not at hell’s gates, but close: the Irving Convention Center (an ode to the Sand Crawler from Star Wars), home to the horror-lover’s answer to Comic-Con, known to all horror aficionados as Texas Frightmare Weekend. If Comic-Con is prom for nerds, this is their dark baptism. Think less glittery and buff Marvel panels and more “What if you could get autographs from the guy who designed the exploding head in Scanners?” The event, which has somehow become the happiest place on Earth not run by a mouse with trademark lawyers, is basically Halloween in May. Which is honestly better, because in Texas, fall is more of a myth than the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Here, summer starts early, and so does the season of gory glee.
Texas Frightmare Weekend began humbly, in hotel ballrooms that still smelled faintly of 2003 buffet steam trays. Back then, maybe a couple hundred people showed up, likely mistaken by the hotel concierge for a particularly intense funeral after-party with Corey Feldman. Now, the event has metastasized in the best possible way, taking over more than 275,000 square feet of haunted happiness and hosting tens of thousands of guests; many of whom have traveled across the globe to buy horror-themed crocheted pot holders and pose with people who’ve been decapitated on screen multiple times.
But the real spirit of Texas Frightmare Weekend isn’t just in its vast collection of movie props, rare action figures, and wall art that makes your mom say, “Why would anyone hang that in a living room?” No, it’s in the community. This isn’t just a place for horror fans, it’s for horror fans, by horror fans, with a little help from the ghosts of VHS tapes past. Picture a dad dressed as Jason Voorhees pushing a stroller containing a toddler dressed as Chucky. A Maltese dog in a tiny Freddy sweater being cooed at by someone with full Killer Klown prosthetics. Entire families dressed as the Scooby-Doo gang, complete with a Great Dane who clearly did not sign up for this. It’s like if Spirit Halloween and a PTA meeting had a baby and raised it on John Carpenter’s The Thing and Twizzlers.
Unlike Comic-Con, which is slowly becoming a place to watch trailers you’ll see on YouTube five minutes later, Texas Frightmare Weekend isn’t trying to sell you the next big franchise. It’s a celebration of what already exists. You’re not there to be marketed to; you’re there to get your Re-Animator VHS signed by people (Barbara Crampton), who were covered in green goo before it was cool. You’re there to tell Linda Blair how The Exorcist gave you night terrors that required therapy. (She will laugh. She has heard worse.) All of which happened this weekend by the way.
This year’s centerpiece was none other than Bruce Campbell, who is to horror what Taylor Swift is to pop culture; but with more fake blood and fewer backup dancers. He signed autographs, hosted his cheeky trivia game show Last Fan Standing, and was generally the patron saint of snark, swagger, and chin-forward confidence. If there were a Mount Rushmore of horror icons, Bruce would be carved into it smirking.
Also in attendance: the cast of Re-Animator, talking about the joys of 1980s low-budget gore. Linda Blair, graciously conjuring up behind-the-scenes tales that made you appreciate just how hard it is to act when you’re strapped to a bed and vomiting pea soup. Even Patrick Brice and Mark Duplass of Creep fame showed up, giving a talk on indie horror that felt equal parts masterclass and group therapy session for people who’ve made a movie with less money than a brunch tab in L.A.
And the fans; oh, the fans! I overheard one tell their neighbor in line that she flew in from Montreal just to meet Tom Savini, the legendary special effects guru who’s basically the Bob Ross of disembowelment. Another had spent nine months crafting a bigger than life winged demon costume using mostly objects you could order on Amazon. There were fangs, blood, cat-eye contacts, and enough body makeup to make Edward Cullen’s head explode. But there were also warm hugs, swapped stories, and a sense of mutual understanding that transcended the gore. You knew, deep in your horror-loving soul: these are your people.
There’s no judgment at Texas Frightmare Weekend. No gatekeeping. Just open arms, some of them animatronic and spurting blood. It’s not just a horror convention. It’s a safe space. A beautifully bizarre melting pot where everyone is welcome; so long as they respect the classics and don’t block the aisles with unwieldy foam chainsaws.
So if you’ve ever felt alone in your love for campy slasher flicks, vintage Stephen King paperbacks, or movies where sentient puppets wreak havoc on unsuspecting humans; Texas Frightmare Weekend is your people’s mecca. And as the horror genre keeps creeping further into mainstream success (racking up box office wins like a Final Girl in a third-act frenzy), this event is only going to get bigger, bloodier, and better.
Forget Disneyland. This is the real happiest place on Earth. No long lines, no broken rides; just pure, giddy, gory joy. And yes, they sell Chucky onesies for babies and Freddy Krueger outfits for dogs and cats, because these are the things that really matter in life and in death.
