A father’s greed for a cursed gem unleashes a supernatural reckoning in a desolate Western frontier, where fate and damnation ride side by side.

Set against the desolate expanse of the Western frontier, Dreadstone: The Beginning unfolds as a haunting fusion of greed, mythology, and madness. A single father’s obsession with a mysterious cursed gem pulls him down a path of ruin and revelation, blurring the line between man and monster. With its striking landscapes and eerie, dreamlike tension, Suriano (Along Came Ruby, Bound by Blood) crafts a cinematic experience where the past and the supernatural collide, echoing classic Western themes through a chilling lens of horror.

Visually rich and emotionally charged, the film examines how far one will go in pursuit of power—and the terrible cost that pursuit exacts. Dreadstone: The Beginning expands its world with mythic undertones, serving as both a standalone tale and the genesis of something far greater. Rooted in human tragedy and cinematic grandeur, it’s a story that lingers long after the dust settles.

Dreadstone merges the Western and cosmic horror genres — two worlds not often seen together. What inspired you to blend these styles, and how did you find their intersection?

Growing up in Italy, I was surrounded by the legacy of the spaghetti western, films that reinterpreted the American frontier through an Italian lens: raw, operatic, and deeply human.

With Dreadstone: The Beginning, I wanted to do the same thing for horror, to create what I like to call a spaghetti horror.


The Western and cosmic horror genres might seem worlds apart, but they share something powerful: loneliness, moral decay, and man confronting something bigger than himself. I imagined the desert as a cathedral of silence, where greed, guilt, and the unknown all coexist. 
So I took that classic Western landscape and let something ancient and cosmic bleed into it. It’s still a story about man versus nature, but this time, nature fights back in ways he can’t comprehend.

The story carries clear echoes of obsession and fate. What personal or cinematic influences helped shape Jeb’s descent into madness?

Jeb’s descent into madness draws from directors who understand the psychology of isolation and the poetry of ruin. I was inspired by the visual precision and emotional decay in There Will Be Blood, the existential dread of Stalker, and the quiet unraveling of identity in The Lighthouse. Those films treat obsession as something sacred, almost spiritual, which is exactly how Jeb perceives his search.

I’m drawn to the kind of filmmaking where landscapes mirror the mind. Tarkovsky and Malick use nature as a living force, while Kubrick and Eggers turn confined spaces into prisons for the soul. This film sits somewhere in between: the vastness of the desert feels infinite, but for Jeb it becomes a box he can never escape. His madness is not sudden or theatrical; it’s something that grows naturally from silence, guilt, and the illusion of control.

The idea of a cursed gem feels deeply symbolic. What does the “Dreadstone” itself represent to you — greed, temptation, or something more existential?

For me, the stone, is the embodiment of awakening. Something ancient that was never meant to be found. On the surface it looks like greed or temptation, but underneath it represents a presence that predates our understanding of good and evil. The people who stumble upon it think they have discovered a mineral or a miracle, but in reality, they have disturbed something far older.

The stone’s glow is both beautiful and dangerous, like a signal from beneath the earth that calls to certain people more than others. It is drawn to those who can hear it, who are sensitive to its frequency. I wanted it to feel like the mountain itself had been waiting for humanity’s curiosity to dig deep enough to set it free. So, yes, it’s a curse, but not a traditional one. It’s a consciousness trying to find a way back into the world.

Jeb’s relationship with his daughter Adeline is both tender and unsettling. How did you approach exploring parenthood within a horror framework?

I am a father and parenthood, to me, is already one of the most fragile and frightening human experiences. It carries love, guilt, and control all tangled together. In Dreadstone: The Beginning, I wanted to push that tension to its breaking point. Jeb genuinely loves Adeline, but his love is possessive; it’s built on the belief that he can protect her by shaping her into his idea of salvation. That instinct becomes his downfall.

Within a horror framework, the line between protection and destruction becomes very thin. What makes it unsettling is that Jeb’s actions come from the same place as love, yet they lead to ruin. Horror allows you to explore the terrifying truth that sometimes love is not enough to save someone, and that the thing you’re trying to protect might be the one holding all the power.

Adeline’s non-verbal nature adds another layer of silence and mystery to the story. What does her presence bring to Jeb’s inner conflict?

Adeline’s silence is what makes Jeb’s voice echo louder. She represents everything he cannot control or understand, which is why she becomes both his anchor and his undoing. Her quietness forces him to confront himself, because in her presence, there’s no one left to convince, no one to manipulate with words. He’s alone with his own delusions.

On a deeper level, Adeline’s non-verbal nature brings a spiritual contrast to the film. She listens to the world in ways Jeb never can. While he digs outward, chasing wealth and meaning, she absorbs everything inwardly, almost as if she’s tuned to a frequency he doesn’t believe exists. That tension, the man who demands answers versus the child who simply feels them, is what fuels his descent.

The film’s Western setting — barren, timeless, and cruel — almost feels like another character. How did you use the landscape to reflect the story’s psychological unraveling?

I wanted the landscape to mirror Jeb’s mental collapse. The desert looks wide and open, but it traps him just like his own obsession does. The more he searches for answers, the smaller the world around him becomes. The land reflects that tightening grip, that sense of being swallowed by something bigger than you.

The Western setting also strips everything down to the essentials: a man, his daughter, and the elements. There is no noise, no distraction, just space and silence. That’s where the real horror comes from, when nature stops being background and starts exposing what’s already broken inside the characters.

The visual tone mixes natural light with otherworldly color. How did you develop the look and feel of this “haunting frontier”?

The look was built around contrast. The cinematographer, Avery Peck, and I wanted the world to feel completely natural, sunlight, dust, and texture that feels almost documentary, so that when the cosmic elements appear, they feel like a rupture in reality. Everything begins grounded in the logic of the frontier, and only near the end does something unexplainable start to seep in.

We approached it in a way similar to classic Lovecraft stories, where the horror hides inside the familiar until it finally reveals itself. By keeping the early visuals restrained and authentic, the later moments of distortion and color feel earned, as if the world itself is changing rather than the camera forcing it.

Cosmic horror often thrives on what’s not seen. How did you decide what to reveal versus what to leave to the imagination?

With this film the rule was always that what you don’t see is more powerful than what you do. Cosmic horror works best when the audience feels the scale of something without ever getting a full glimpse of it. Avery Peck and I wanted every sound, shadow, and flicker of light to suggest a world that exists just outside the frame.

We revealed only what was necessary to keep the story grounded in Jeb’s perspective. He doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with, so neither should the audience. The moment you show too much, the mystery dies. The goal was to make viewers feel like they were standing next to him, trying to make sense of something vast and indifferent, and realizing they never truly can.

The title Dreadstone: The Beginning suggests a larger mythology. Is this film part of a bigger narrative universe or an origin story for something more expansive?

The original idea was just to make a short film, but once it was done I couldn’t stop thinking about what comes after. Dreadstone: The Beginning started feeling like the origin story to something much larger.

I’ve since developed two connected projects that I would love to film one day; a limited series that begins right after the short ends, and a feature film that tells the full story leading up to it, where the short becomes the final twenty minutes.

What are the books, podcasts or even YouTube Channel that you recommend young filmmakers to get their hands on?

I think the best education for any filmmaker is to study how people think, not just how they shoot. That said, there are a few books and channels that really shaped how I approach storytelling and directing.

For books, In the Blink of an Eye by Walter Murch is essential, it teaches editing as a philosophy, not just a craft. Rebel without a Crew by Robert Rodriguez reminds you that resourcefulness can be more powerful than budget. And On Directing Film by David Mamet is great for understanding clarity and intention in every scene.

For podcasts, I’d recommend Team Deakins for its depth on cinematography and visual storytelling, and Scriptnotes by John August and Craig Mazin for a brutally honest look at screenwriting and the industry.

On YouTube, Lessons from the Screenplay, Every Frame a Painting, and StudioBinder are great places to learn structure, rhythm, and the invisible language of film.

But ultimately, the best resource is still watching movies and trying to reverse-engineer why they work on you emotionally.

Can you share with us some of your favorite short films you’ve seen lately?

Lately I’ve been really inspired by a few short films that remind me how powerful this format can be. Other Side of the Box by Caleb J. Phillips, Ignore It by Duncan Birmingham, Man on a Train by Mac Eldridge, and A Song for William Bird (Director’s Cut) (Watch on FS) by Jacob Wiebe. 
All of them show how much world-building and tension you can create in under twenty minutes. Each one feels complete, cinematic, and deeply personal in its own way.