Shining Vale is dark comedy about a messed-up family in a haunted house. They try to fresh start, but past haunts them, along with some real ghosts. It’s packed with laughs, chills and family drama. Perfect mix of humor and horror. You will love it!

Meet the characters from Shining Vale

Patricia Phelps

Patricia (yes, Pat — she’ll correct you if you call her anything else) is this glorious mess of a novelist pushed to the brink, equal parts fiery sarcasm and absolute vulnerability. She’s convinced the house is alive, spends half the night journaling and the other half making perfect grilled cheese (but also swears she hates the kitchen — which is probably true?), and you can almost see the panic and the humor colliding. She’s prickly and loving and wildly unreliable as a narrator, which makes every thing she does feel like a confession and a dare. Honestly, she’s the kind of person who will fix a broken lamp at 2 a.m. while reading a horror paperback to calm herself — and then forget where she put the lampshade.

Terry Phelps

Terry is the big-hearted, awkward dad who tries so hard to hold the family together that it’s almost a superpower — except sometimes his “fix it” approach is totally wrong, but you can’t blame him for trying. He’s warm, a little bit clueless, endlessly optimistic, and also prone to doing baffling dad stuff like putting the same plant in every room because he thinks photos make spaces “happier” (nope). He loves his family fiercely, and that earnestness can be both heroic and excruciating to watch, like someone who wants to be brave but keeps reading the instruction manual. Also, he hums while he works, which is either adorable or ominous depending on the song.

Rosemary

Rosemary is teen-sarcastic and full of edge — sharp, observant, and suspicious of adult explanations, which makes her quietly terrifying in the best way. She’s the kind of kid who can quote a horror movie while quietly making a coping list in the margins of her math homework; also she hoards tiny glass figurines for reasons she won’t explain (maybe magical? maybe just pretty). She swings between being moody and unexpectedly tender, and when she’s honest it hits like a punch — but she’ll also adopt a puppy on a whim and then act like it was totally her plan all along. There’s a weird, stubborn wisdom about her, like she’s been listening to too many old radio shows and also knows the exact way to roll her eyes for maximum effect.

Kam

Kam is the calm, no-nonsense friend/ally who shows up and quietly rearranges the chaos with a towel over her shoulder and a look that says “we can fix this” — and then proceeds to fix it, sometimes in ways that are suspiciously theatrical. Practical to a fault but with these tiny, inexplicable quirks (eats cereal at midnight out of Tupperware like a teenager, owns three identical jackets), she’s the steady center everyone leans on even if she pretends not to want the responsibility. She’s fiercely loyal and has a past that hints at things you do not want to Google, which makes her both a safe harbor and a mystery. Honestly, I bet she’s secretly into gardening podcasts and also swears by an old compass she keeps in her glove compartment for reasons she will never fully explain.

Gaynor Phelps

Gaynor is the old-school, sharp-tongued matriarch who wields concern like a weapon but also bakes suspiciously good cookies, which is both terrifying and oddly comforting. She stomps into rooms and into conversations, says the thing everyone’s thinking (politely cruel), and then leaves a casserole and a pamphlet about emotional health on the counter — multitasking villain-y caretaker vibes. She’s complicated: protective as hell, prone to judgment, but somehow full of tiny, baffling kindnesses (like secretly keeping a stash of emergency scarves in the car). Sometimes you love her, sometimes you want to hide under a pillow, and sometimes she’ll call at 2 a.m. to recite a poem she swears she wrote in 1974 — and you’ll listen anyway.

Jake Phelps

Jake is sulky-teen perfection: moody, taciturn, skateboard under his feet and headphones around his neck, but with this weirdly acute radar for what’s off in a room. He’s quiet but not dumb — observant, tired, and secretly silly if you catch him at the right (or very wrong) moment, like when he breaks into an off-key Broadway tune in the grocery aisle. He’s the kind of kid who says one deadpan line and then leaves you hysterical or unnerved, sometimes both, and is always carrying a pocketful of mixtapes he insists aren’t mixtapes. Also, he cooks an absurdly good mac and cheese when he’s stressed, which nobody expected but now everyone relies on.

Robyn Court

Robyn Court is that smooth, too-perfect neighbor or local figure who smiles like she knows something you don’t and probably does, but in a chic way — like poison served in a teacup with gold trim. She’s polished, social, maybe a little performative, and excellent at hosting, which means she sees everything and judges it quietly with perfect posture. There’s an undercurrent of something petty and dangerous beneath the surface — she remembers grudges like heirlooms and uses them like knitting needles (I don’t know why I keep thinking she has a secret drawer full of postcards). Also, she always—always—has an impossible array of houseplants that somehow survive her glare, which should be illegal.

Joan.

Joan. (yes, the period is apparently her vibe) is the mysterious elder who shows up at the right moments with cryptic advice and cookies that may or may not be enchanted, and she does it with the casual authority of someone who knows every rumor in town. She’s part folklore, part nosy neighbor, part oracle — one minute she’s knitting and complaining about the weather, the next she’s handing you a key and a prophecy like it’s no big deal. She contradicts herself all the time (says she hates gossip but also has a scrapbook of everyone’s birthdays), which makes her equal parts infuriating and indispensable. Also, she loves crossword puzzles and can be bribed with a good cup of tea and a bad joke — not necessarily in that order.