Welcome to the festering underbelly of modern romance, where swiping right might just land you a ghost with a hard-on for your soul. Elric Kane’s The Dead Thing isn’t your typical hearts-and-flowers horror flick. It’s a slow-burn, surreal flick that tries to dissect the rotting corpse of dating culture while tossing in some supernatural spice. Kane, a horror nerd turned first-time solo director, brings his podcast-honed chops to the table, but does this moody little indie deliver the goods or just leave us blue-balled? Let’s dig in, fuckers.

Elric Kane’s no newbie to the horror game—he’s been slinging gore-soaked wisdom for years as a co-host of the Shock Waves Podcast, Pure Cinema Podcast, and Colors of the Dark. The dude’s a walking encyclopedia of cinematic nightmares, the kind of guy who’d rather debate Argento’s best kill than watch the Super Bowl. Alongside co-writer Webb Wilcoxen, Kane’s finally stepped out from behind the mic to helm The Dead Thing, his first solo feature after dabbling in shorts and co-directing gigs. You can feel his love for the genre dripping from every frame. But passion doesn’t always equal perfection, and Kane’s debut is a messy, ambitious beast that swings big and occasionally whiffs.

Alex (Blu Hunt), a twentysomething office drone, is stuck in a soul-crushing loop of shitty hookups via a dating app called Friktion—because subtlety’s for suckers. She’s numb as hell, scarfing Twizzlers and supermarket sushi like a zombie, her life a dim-lit purgatory of dead-end work and dead-end lays. Enter Kyle (Ben Smith-Petersen), a tattooed charmer with a smile that could melt a nun’s panties. Their first date’s a goddamn revelation—talking all night, sketching each other, screwing like it means something. Alex catches feelings, Kyle seems smitten, and then—poof—he ghosts her harder than Casper on a bender.

Next day, he’s AWOL. No texts, no calls, nada. When Alex finally tracks him down, he’s blank-eyed, claiming he doesn’t know her. Shit gets weirder: turns out Kyle’s a ghost, killed years back in a car wreck, now stuck in a spectral limbo, swiping for souls to keep him tethered. What starts as a “why’d he ditch me?” mystery spirals into a possessive, co-dependent nightmare, with Kyle’s jealousy turning murderous and Alex’s life unraveling like a cheap sweater. It’s Fatal Attraction meets The Sixth Sense, but with more neon lights and existential angst.

The Dead Thing isn’t just about a ghost with a boner—it’s a meditation on the hollowed-out husk of modern dating. Kane and Wilcoxen wield their script like a scalpel, slicing into the loneliness epidemic fueled by swipe culture. Alex’s world is a post-COVID wasteland—empty bars, a near-deserted office, a city bathed in perpetual night. It’s a visual metaphor for isolation so thick you could choke on it, and damn if it doesn’t hit home. The dating app Friktion? It’s the devil’s slot machine, spitting out fleeting highs and crushing lows, a digital vampire draining Alex’s will to live.

Kyle’s ghost gig doubles as a symbol for toxic relationships—those manipulative bastards who love-bomb you, reel you in, then suck you dry. “You need me. Say you need me,” he growls during sex, a chilling echo of every controlling asshole who’s ever turned intimacy into a cage. The film’s surreal vibe—dreamlike lighting, green fluorescents giving Alex a zombie glow—amps up the idea that this isn’t reality, it’s a nightmare you can’t swipe left on. And those earbuds they share? A lifeline to connection that snaps when Kyle’s true nature breaks through. It’s smart shit, even if it occasionally feels like it’s trying to impress your film studies prof.

The flick’s got a clear-as-fuck message: modern romance is a haunted house, and we’re all dumbasses stumbling through it. Kane’s not here to coddle you—he’s saying that ghosting isn’t just rude, it’s a soul-crushing wound that leaves scars. Alex’s obsession with Kyle mirrors our collective desperation for validation in a world where a “like” feels like love. But it’s not all doom and gloom; there’s a flicker of hope in her moments with co-worker Chris (John Karna), a reminder that real connection’s possible if you ditch the digital bullshit. Still, the film’s too cynical to let that shine too bright—love’s a gamble, and the house always wins.

The script’s a mixed bag. Kane and Wilcoxen nail the atmosphere—dialogue’s sparse, letting the mood do the heavy lifting, and the subtext about dating’s dark side is razor-sharp. But the plot? It’s a wobbly son of a bitch. The supernatural twist is cool as hell—Kyle’s a ghost tethered by lust and fear—but it’s undercooked. How’s he still swiping? Why’s he killing? The film leaves too many gaps, expecting you to fill in the blanks with vibes instead of logic. It’s abstract to a fault, and while that works for artsy horror fans, it’ll piss off anyone craving a tight story. The pacing drags too, especially in the middle, like a date that won’t end but isn’t going anywhere good.

Blu Hunt is the beating heart of this flick, and holy shit, does she deliver. Alex could’ve been a whiny cliché, but Hunt plays her with a raw, muted intensity—eyes hollow one minute, sparking with hope the next. She’s a fucking revelation, carrying the film’s emotional weight on her shoulders like it’s nothing. Ben Smith-Petersen’s Kyle is trickier—he’s got the charm down, but once the ghost shit kicks in, he’s stuck in flat-affect limbo. It’s intentional, sure, but it makes their chemistry fizzle when it should sizzle. Supporting players like John Karna (Chris) and Katherine Hughes (roommate Cara) bring some life—Karna’s got a scruffy charm, Hughes a quiet depth—but they’re sidelined, leaving Hunt to shoulder the load solo.

The Dead Thing shines brightest when it leans into its strengths. The atmosphere’s thick—Ioana Vasile’s cinematography bathes L.A. in inky blacks and neon glows. The score by Michael Krassner and Robin Vining is a moody bastard, all synth swells and choral whispers that crawl under your skin. And those themes? They hit like a sledgehammer—loneliness, obsession, the ghost of past loves lingering like a bad hangover. Hunt’s performance ties it all together, grounding the surreal shit in something achingly human. For a low-budget indie, it’s got balls and vision, and that counts for a lot.

Here’s where I get pissy. For all its promise, The Dead Thing doesn’t stick the landing. The final act trades subtlety for half-baked horror—Kyle’s murder spree feels tacked-on, like Kane got a note saying, “More blood, dipshit!” It’s effective in bursts (invisible attacks à la The Invisible Man are creepy as fuck), but it muddies the film’s focus. The ending’s a cyclical gut-punch, mirroring Alex’s intro, but it’s too vague—did she break free or just reset the app? The lack of clarity feels less clever, more lazy. And while the slow burn works early, it drags like a hungover Sunday by the midpoint. Trim 15 minutes, flesh out Kyle’s ghost rules, and this could’ve been a banger instead of a near-miss.

The Dead Thing is a frustrating, fascinating little fucker. It’s got the heart of a classic erotic thriller, the brains of an art-house horror flick, and the guts to tackle the dating apocalypse head-on. Blu Hunt’s a goddamn star, the vibes are immaculate, and the metaphors’ll make you think twice before texting your ex. But it’s also a slog at times, with a script that’s too in love with its own ambiguity and a climax that doesn’t earn its chaos. For horror fiends who dig atmosphere over jump-scares, it’s a solid watch—pair it with a stiff drink and some post-COVID cynicism. Just don’t expect it to love you back.