The scene opens with a warm, cluttered corner of a family home, where laughter cycles softly through the air and the rhythm of daily life hums like a familiar lullaby. Yet beneath the surface of this bright life, a thread of intensity runs deep, curling around Amy Slaton’s words as she leans into a confidant moment that feels almost cinematic in its honesty. Tonight, she shares a secret that glows with a quiet, eerie glow—a personal tradition that turns motherhood into a midnight storybook, a devotion that weds horror to hearth and home.

Amy’s voice carries both mischief and meaning as she reveals the unusual source of inspiration for naming her two young sons. She speaks not in whispers, but in a steady, unapologetic cadence, as if she’s unspooling a tale she’s carried long enough to know every twist. Her first son, Gage Dion, emerges from her memory like a trace left by a shadow on a wall—faint at first, then suddenly clear. Those in the know will recognize the name Gage as a nod to a tragic child in Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, a character whose world is tempered by fear, fate, and the fragile line between life and death. The choice isn’t a celebration of dread, but a reverent nod to the genre that has long whispered through Amy’s life, shaping the pulse of her imagination and sealing a bond between fiction and family.

Her younger son, Glenn Allen, steps into the light with a different cadence, named after a character from Seed of Chucky—the unsettling tale where the famous killer doll, Chucky, meets his iconic mate Tiffany, and their child mirrors the moral maze that haunts those tales. Glenn, in this thread of horror kinship, becomes more than a scream on a screen; he embodies the paradox at the heart of horror storytelling—the lure of darkness tempered by a gentle, almost domesticated tenderness. Amy explains that Glenn’s name represents her love of the broader craft of horror—the storytelling, the atmosphere, the way fear can be folded into resilience and humor without consuming it. It’s a reverent tribute rather than a stark endorsement of fright.

As the conversation deepens, Amy paints a portrait of how this fascination intersects with the reality she lives day to day. The house is bright with ordinary sounds—the clink of dishes, the soft thud of toys being set aside for nap time—but her confession travels through the space like a flicker of smoke: a reminder that a mother’s passions don’t vanish the moment she steps into the role of caregiver. Instead, they become threads braided into the fabric of her children’s lives, giving them a sense of identity that is rooted in stories larger than themselves, stories that travel with them as they grow.

The moment also hints at the rollercoaster of Amy’s personal journey: the road that led her through dramatic life changes, including health battles and public scrutiny, toward a steadier, more sacred role as a mother. Her honesty about motherhood—about the fierce responsibilities, the fear of missteps, and the longing to raise sons who will contribute positively to the world—lands with a weight that feels earned, not rehearsed. She wants more than a cute childhood; she wants to cultivate character. Her narration carries the heartbeat of a parent who has learned that wonder and caution can co-exist, that a love of the macabre can coexist with a commitment to kindness, and that a house can be alive with stories and still be a sanctuary.

Throughout the exchange, there’s a sense of boundary and bravado in equal measure. Amy doesn’t shy away from the horror genre’s pull, nor does she pretend that these choices exist in a vacuum. The horror references serve as both a playful signature and a window into her values: to honor the imaginative, to instill curiosity, and to teach her sons to navigate fear with courage, to question, to learn, and to grow into compassionate, responsible men. The horror lens becomes a metaphor for resilience—the way a story’s shocks can sharpen a person’s empathy, the way a culture often bonds over shared frights and shared laughter after.

As the interview unfolds, the tone shifts gently toward a more grounded, hopeful note. Amy’s motherhood is not a mere backdrop; it is the engine driving her every choice. The names, the haunted paint tour she bravely undertakes with her family, and the earnest hope she articulates—these all converge into a portrait of a woman who refuses to silence her true self in the face of public life. She wants her boys to “be good guys,” to soak up knowledge, to walk the world with integrity and generosity. It’s a pledge she repeats with tenderness: she will be there for them as much as possible, teaching them how to be present, thoughtful, and kind, so that they do not drift into the streets with nothing to anchor them but fear or bravado. The horror references become, in this light, a teaching tool—a way to spark imagination while guiding moral compass.

The conversation ends not with a scream or a scream that never ends, but with a promise. A promise that motherhood can hold space for a personal obsession and a public life, that a name can carry a universe of meaning beyond its syllables, and that love—fierce, protective, curious—can be the strongest narrative of all. Amy’s revelation isn’t a gimmick; it’s a testament to a life in which identity is not surrendered at the door when one becomes a parent. It’s a validation of the idea that a person can remain distinctly themselves while shaping two young lives around the center of compassion, curiosity, and courage.