There are storytellers whose voice quiets a campfire, whose stories pull people in with that familiar mix of laughter, fear, and truth that only grows out of community. Cary Thomas Cody is one of those storytellers. Long before he ever stepped behind a camera, he was already carrying the wonder of the stories passed to him by his dad, his aunties and uncles, and every night spent under Oklahoma skies where something might be moving just past the treeline.
Cary’s work in horror is not an escape from who he is. It is the place where his childhood, his Kiowa roots, his imagination, and his lived experiences braid together. Whether he is writing about Deer Woman, turning local jokes into folklore come alive, or directing a short film on a budget that looks like pocket change, he is guided by the same thing that shaped him as a kid at that campfire. He knows what fear feels like in a Native household, how it shifts from story to lesson, from danger to survival, from warning to connection. His films might play with humor, gore, and genre, but their heart comes straight from the community that raised him.
In this conversation, Cary talks about passing that storytelling torch, the realities of making Indigenous horror on no budget, and how projects like Crooked Face become possible only when community, persistence, and a stubborn love for the craft all collide.
Q. Which family members, community stories, or cultural experiences from your Kiowa upbringing influenced your love for storytelling?
As one of 6 kids, I had to fight to get my parents’ affection, especially my dad’s. The one thing he and I bonded over was OUR thing: our love for horror and sci-fi movies. My fondest memories with my dad were going to the local video store, walking through the horror section, and renting some of the movies that looked the scariest. While this is not a part of our “heritage”, it is such a familiar story you’ll hear from indigenous youth.
My love for storytelling was also heavily influenced by the campfire. My family does a big family campout every Memorial Day weekend, and a big part of that is when it gets dark and the kids go to sleep, the scary stories start flowing. It’s my absolute favorite part of camping and something my soul needs every year, even if it’s the same stories from my Dad, Uncle Mark, Aunt Carol, or my brothers. It’s where I learned about Deer Woman, Little People, medicine, etc.
Q. When did you first realize that storytelling was not just something you enjoyed, but something you were meant to do?
Around that same campfire a few years ago, I walked up, and suddenly everyone stopped talking and said, “Okay Cary is here for the stories!” They all shut up and listened to me talk about Big Foot, the grays, medicine, or whatever it was that particular night. I realized that the torch had been passed to me from the older storytellers. Also during that same weekend, I had about half a dozen kids under the age of 10 huddled up at my feet listening to me tell stories about the wild antics my brothers, cousins, and I used to get into as kids. I looked at them and saw myself and my brothers listening to my dad, aunties, and uncles.
Q. What inspired you to create Skull Crawlers, and how does it reflect your personal and creative journey?
At first, Orrin Ponkilla and I started The Skull Crawlers to talk about movies we liked! It was during the pandemic; we were outside, social distancing, drinkin’ beers every night, and thought we better do something different. During those late-night campfire sessions, we dreamed up stories for scary movies. Right around then, our mutual friend Mikey Hevr, a wedding videographer and jack-of-all-trades, hit us up and asked if we wanted to make a scary short film. It was perfect timing for what we wanted to do, so the three of us threw together our first short film, Crutch, and have made eight short films since.
Q. How did horror, folklore, or supernatural stories show up in your childhood, and what draws you to explore those themes now?
For me, the supernatural folklore was just a part of who we were. We were afraid to go out at night; if we did, it was definitely under street lights and out from under the trees. Always afraid of Deer Woman, there was something about those stories that truly terrified us. There is also something about that feeling that she may be lurking in the shadows, in the treeline just outside of the camp. That feeling is what I try to convey in my written prose fiction, and while The Skull Crawlers shorts may be a little silly, I still want to have that same feeling when we do something darker, like Crooked Face.
Q. What challenges have you faced as an Indigenous filmmaker working to maintain creative control and authenticity in your projects?
We literally never have a budget for what we do. So everything we shoot or do at all is out of pocket. Luckily for us, our favorite horror movies are low-budget and huge inspirations for filmmakers like us. What can we do with literally no money and make it horrifying/gory/awesome? Other filmmakers like Sam Raimi have already done it!
As an indigenous filmmaker, what is scary to me isn’t always scary to other people. They don’t know our superstitions, our beliefs, they don’t know how horrifying medicine can be, or curses that may be put on you for any reason. So I can’t just write a script that’s scary to me and expect everyone to receive it the same way, because it often goes over people’s heads who aren’t native folks. And that makes me sad: if I ever have a budget and want something to be received well outside of NDN Country, I’ll have to write in non-indigenous characters to be “narrators” or spoon-feed them folklore so they can better understand the story.
Q. How does your personal history influence whether you approach a story through documentary or fiction?
I grew up in a very interesting situation for a NDN. I’m half white, and we grew up in the small town of Tecumseh, Oklahoma. The population was around 40% native, and we grew up in a small-income Native American housing development. However, we were perceived as the white family on the block. We had cars that ran, clothes that mostly didn’t have holes, and two parents who didn’t yell at each other in the street.
But at school, we were still seen as natives and got treated like all the other brown folk. So I feel like I can represent both sides of my bloodlines well, which helps me tell stories.
I’ve never written anything that wasn’t directly influenced by my life and how I grew up, so maybe someday I’ll make a documentary or horror film about something I know nothing about yet, but for now, I plan to stick to what I know.
Q. If you could bring one dream project to life that connects your roots, your storytelling, and your vision for Indigenous cinema, what would it be and why?
It would definitely be a horror film. Something along the lines of The Black Phone, Talk To Me, or Sinners. Something that tells a fantastic, thrilling story, something with crime and well-written characters and backstories, but adds a little supernatural twist. I have always loved small-town invasion stories, so something along those lines, too.
Q. What inspired Crooked Face, and what first sparked the idea to turn it into a film?
Gah, all growing up we would always say “be careful, dont get crooked face!” if someone went out into the dark. And if someone on the rez or in our family had Bell’s palsy, it was always a rumor that they saw something so horrifying that their face got stuck like that, hahaha. It’s honestly messed up to think about it, but we joked about it. There is also the scene in The Ring at the very beginning: her corpse is found, and her face is so twisted that I think that stuck with us.
Q. What were some of the biggest challenges you faced creating Crooked Face on a zero budget, and how did you and your team overcome them?
Well, this film was a dream project from start to finish. Of course, filming a short film or any film project in one or two shooting days is impossible. But this one went so well because Jordan Nicks and his team came in and handled camera operation, lighting, and sound. For the first time in any of my short films, I didn’t have to worry about anything but directing, and it was amazing.
This was the first short film we shot without Mikey as our DP and editor, so it was a different experience learning how folks like to shoot. But I trusted in my ability to direct, and from there it was smooth sailing.
Also, we just got really lucky. Lucky we had the group of people we did, when we did. We were all locked in and made something really pretty and really scary.
Q. How did the film ultimately come together, and what did that process teach you about storytelling, collaboration, and persistence?
The film came together with a lot of teamwork. Jordan Nicks was the DP and colorist. He was also amazing at sharing the project files and taught me so much, and Jeff Richardson and I sat down together and edited the film in a few days. It came together so fast and so well, and for the first time, the film actually came out the way I envisioned it. I really wish we had shot more and written more for it so it could be longer, but it was initially just a film to get us back on our feet after finally releasing our previous short film, Birthday Bash, the year prior.
For persistence, I can say that if Orrin, Mikey, and I didn’t film Crutch in 2020, and then another short film soon after that with a slightly bigger crew, and then more each year after that, we would have never have had the opportunity to throw out the text of “who wants to film something this weekend?” and then throw something wonderful together.
People can see your hard work, see the magic you make with nothing, and then they will want to help out in the future. That’s exactly how Crooked Face was made.
It was a success. We plan to have a public screening on December 9th, 2025, at Oklahoma Film Exchange on Film Row, if anyone wants to see it in all its glory on the big screen!
Cary Thomas Cody does not treat storytelling like a career ladder or a trend to chase. He treats it like a responsibility. You can hear it when he talks about the kids at his feet at the family campout, or when he names every person who helped shape Crooked Face, or when he explains how fear looks different when you grow up Native and know what waits beyond the streetlights.
What Cary is doing is more than making films. He is adding another voice to the growing world of Indigenous horror, a voice rooted in small towns, rez humor, long nights, and the stories our elders whispered to keep us safe. He is proof that when Native filmmakers take creative control and trust their instincts and their communities, something powerful takes shape.
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