One of my absolute favorite things to do when I’m on vacation is to visit horror filming locations. Wherever you happen to be going, odds are that at least one horror project was filmed there at some point. There’s something magical about seeing the places that helped bring iconic scary stories to life on the big and small screens.

However, some locations are better than others. A lot of them (like the original A Nightmare on Elm Street house, Stu’s house from Scream, and the schoolhouse from The Birds) are private property and aren’t always owned by people who are particularly happy to have horror fans milling around out front. Others (like the schools from Buffy, Elm Street, and many other teen horror titles) are active educational institutions that don’t welcome strange visitors.

But I’m here to deliver a guide to some of the coolest horror filming locations in North America that give you that magical vibe without somebody calling 9-1-1 on you. Because the best things in life are free, so are all the locations on this list.

The Bridge from A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

Location: Linnie Canal Ct. Los Angeles, CA 9029, USA

The bridge where Glen (Johnny Depp) and Nancy (Heather Langenkamp) discuss the Balinese method of dreaming is nowhere near the movie’s fictional town of Springwood, Ohio. It’s actually one of the bridges over the human-made canals in Venice, California. Specifically, it’s the bridge over the Eastern canal that connects to Linnie Ct. It’s totally free to visit, and once you’re done taking photos and quoting “I’m into survival” to your heart’s content, you’re still in Venice. Not a bad place to be!

The Movie Theater from Scream 2 (1997)

Location: Rialto Theatre, 1019-1023 Fair Oaks Ave. South Pasadena, CA, 91030 USA

Although the majority of the campus scenes in the college-set slasher sequel Scream 2 were filmed at Agnes Scott College in Georgia, a lot of the school’s surrounding environs were filmed closer to Hollywood, in sunny Pasadena. While the movie theater where poor Phil (Omar Epps) and Maureen (Jada Pinkett Smith) are killed in the movie’s prologue is no longer an operating cinema and you can’t go inside (the building has been taken over by a church), the exterior has been well preserved and looks more or less exactly the way it did in the late 1990s.

This horror filming location is also just an 11 minute drive from the street where the film’s famous car crash sequence was shot, which is part of Green Street between South Los Robles Avenue and Madison Avenue in Pasadena.

The Myers House from Halloween (1978)

Location: 1000 Mission St, South Pasadena, CA 91030, USA

Although the building has been moved from its original location, it was rebuilt to look exactly the way it does when young Michael Myers is stalking his way around it in the iconic opening sequence of Halloween. There is a business operating out of the building, so don’t bother them or try to get inside (the interiors aren’t the same, anyway). But at this point, they’re very used to people doing photo ops out front. If you find yourself in Pasadena on October 31, it’s a can’t-miss destination, as a nonstop torrent of cosplayers swarm the area.

Other free Halloween locations in South Pasadena include the exterior of the hardware store where Michael gets his mask (right around the corner at 966 Mission St – it’s now the Radhika Modern Indian restaurant) and the famous hedge he hides behind when stalking Laurie Strode (just one mile away, at 1019 Montrose Ave S).

Brennan’s Tip: If you do have money to burn, check out the SugarMynt Gallery next door, which is chock full of horror-themed artwork. Also grab a snack at the Heirloom Bakery across the street! They’ve got all kinds of great treats (I even had them do the desserts for my wedding), and you can enjoy them on the outdoor patio with the Myers house looming over you.

The Town Square from Scream (1996)

Location: Healdsburg Town Square, Healdsburg, CA 95448, USA

Scream was filmed in and around Sonoma County, but the core town playing Woodsboro was the real-life wine country borough of Healdsburg. The town square, complete with fountain, is still there, and surrounded by cute shops and restaurants. You can also find the police station exterior where Sidney punches out Gale at Oakville Grocery (124 Matheson Street) nearby, but it has changed enough to be barely recognizable at this point.

Derry from It (2017), It: Chapter Two (2019), and It: Welcome to Derry (2025-)

Location: Port Hope, Ontario L1A 2Y7, Canada

The majority of the important locations in It and Welcome to Derry’s fictional town of Derry, Maine are all located along the main road of Port Hope, including the movie theater (Capitol Theatre on 20 Queen St), the library (Port Hope Town Hall, 56 Queen St), the park with the bandshell, and the alleyway outside the butcher shop, which still has the door painted with the faux sign from the movie.

Brennan’s Tip: Check out the river that runs parallel to the main street. When I went, there were hundreds of fish making their way upstream for spawning. Multiple species do this in Port Hope, in various seasons, so you never know if you’ll get lucky.

The University from Black Christmas (1974)

Location: Soldiers’ Tower at the University of Toronto, Hart House Cir, Toronto, Ontario M5S 3H7, Canada

The college from the 1974 proto-slasher Black Christmas is played by the real-life University of Toronto, with the most notable area being the plaza outside Soldiers’ Tower, where Clare’s dad is seen waiting for his ill-fated daughter.

Brennan’s Tip: If you’re a huge Killer Party (1986) fan like I am, the Children’s Aid Foundation of Canada building (25 Spadina Rd), which plays the haunted frat house, is just a short walk away.

Abe’s Snake Bodega from Scream VI (2023)

Location: Dépanneur St.Ambroise, 5701 Sherbrooke St W, Montreal, QC H4A 1W9, Canada

Our next horror filming location is of a more recent vintage, but it’s an instant classic: the “New York City” bodega in which Ghostface hunts down Sam (Melissa Barrera) and Tara Carpenter (Jenna Ortega) in Scream VI. Both the exterior and the interior of the shop were used for filming, though they changed a great deal of the inside to make it look more New York-y. You don’t have to pay to visit, but if you want to do a photo op posing like Ghostface at the end of the row of refrigerator cases, you might as well buy a soda on your way out as a thank you.

Other worthwhile free Scream VI filming locations in the area are the campus of Blackmore University (McGill University at 845 Sherbrooke St W), and “Central Park” (Parc La Fontaine, 3819 Av. Calixa-Lavallée).

Crawford Academy from Happy Birthday to Me (1981)

Location: Concordia University – Loyola Campus, 7141 Sherbrooke St W, Montreal, Quebec H4B 1R6, Canada

The fictional high school from this classic Canadian slasher was played by the real-life Concordia University (except for the opening kill scene, which was shot around Douglass Hall at McGill University). It’s a relatively small campus, so you can’t miss the grand brick buildings, which look exactly the same now as they did 45 years ago, though the quad has been relandscaped.

The Steps from The Exorcist (1973)

Location: Corner of Prospect St and 36th St NW, Georgetown, Washington, D.C., 20007, USA

William Friedkin’s landmark classic The Exorcist is home to one of our most iconic horror filming locations yet. The steps that claim the lives of both Burke Dennings (Jack MacGowran) and Father Karras (Jason Miller) are still there more than 50 years later, and you’ll almost certainly find people exercising on them, as if they aren’t worried that Pazuzu is gonna fling another victim toward them when they least expect it.

While the house from The Exorcist is indeed at the top of the steps (at 3600 Prospect Street), it is more set back than the movie implies (the exterior of Reagan’s window was a facade). But it’s still there, as is the Georgetown campus, where other scenes from the movie were filmed.

The Crystal Shop from Obsession (2026)

Location: The Green Man, 824 N Hollywood Way, Burbank, CA 91505, USA

Our tour of some of the greatest free horror filming locations of North America comes full circle now, bringing us back to Southern California with the most recent movie on the list. Curry Barker’s Obsession was entirely shot in and around Burbank, and the metaphysical supply store The Green Man looks almost exactly like the fictional store from the movie, both inside and out. Just don’t go in hoping to find a display of One Wish Willows.

​I’ve spent years honing my craft making strange, retro-inspired horror films on a budget — films driven by style but rooted in emotion. Love, grief, heartbreak, longing — all filtered through darkness. I’ve always been drawn to horror because, like many people, I found healing there. In stories where fear becomes confrontation, where pain can finally take shape.

How Joshua Tree Inspired In the Valley

During COVID, my partner and I bought land in Joshua Tree and built an off-grid glampsite. It became an oasis away from the city — a place defined by silence, stars, old VHS tapes, and isolation that initially felt restorative. At night, we’d drift between local dive bars, searching for connection in the middle of nowhere.

One spot we frequented was Out There Bar — a strange desert refuge with drag nights, disco, and often only a handful of people scattered inside. Most nights felt harmless, almost dreamlike. But every so often, something shifted in me. A wall would suddenly go up — an instinctive voice whispering: Be careful. Don’t let anyone know you’re queer. The feeling was immediate and overwhelming. A defense mechanism I thought I had long outgrown. One of the largest military bases in the country sat only a few miles away, and soldiers would often cycle through the bar. Some encounters were warm, others less so, but there was always an underlying sensation I couldn’t shake — that isolating feeling of being watched too closely.

What unsettled me most was the contradiction. I had been openly queer since I was seventeen. Proudly. Yet suddenly, in the place I considered my sanctuary, old survival instincts came rushing back. Joshua Tree is romanticized as liberating and expansive — a place people go to find themselves. And yet, underneath that openness, I found myself shrinking again. That feeling became the seed of In the Valley.

The stars are why you go to the desert. No matter how many vintage motels or pools people chase, the conversation always circles back to the sky. The desert remains one of the few places where light pollution disappears, and the stars reveal themselves fully. But I became fascinated by another feeling entirely: the sensation that something might be watching back. As the desert became my second home and that defensive wall kept resurfacing, I started interrogating the feeling more deeply. Why was I suddenly so concerned with safety? What exactly was I afraid of?

Queer Fear and Survival in Isolated Spaces

The answer was complicated because I hadn’t experienced overt homophobia in any defining way before. Sure, there had been passing slurs shouted from cars or strangers trying to provoke something ugly, but those moments felt easy to dismiss. What unsettled me more was the quieter feeling underneath it all — inherited vigilance. My partner is non-binary, and their safety often occupies my mind more than my own. Even in harmless moments, I found myself scanning rooms, reading body language, calculating exits. It wasn’t irrational. It was conditioning — a survival instinct sharpened over generations of queer people learning when to stay visible and when to disappear.

Building Horror From Internalized Fear

That was the horror I wanted to explore.

Not simply homophobia itself, but the psychological architecture it leaves behind. The way fear embeds itself into the body long after you convince yourself you’re safe. Eventually, I realized I had to confront it. I had to give it a face.

In the Valley is a descent — a body-switch film wrapped in alien imagery and retro western horror aesthetics. The film begins with Josh entering a queer speakeasy hidden in the middle of the desert. The room immediately studies him. Josh carries himself with hesitation, almost like someone entering a gay bar for the first time and trying desperately not to appear uncomfortable.

Romance, Desire, and Alien Horror

After several strange encounters with the bar’s enigmatic owner, Dahlia, the atmosphere shifts when Richard enters the room. Their connection is immediate, communicated through something as simple as a smile. Quiet conversation turns into flirtation, flirtation into dancing, and suddenly the film reveals itself as a romance. Richard takes Josh home after Josh admits he can barely remember where he lives — an important detail. Josh exists untethered, emotionally disoriented, searching for grounding in another person. Outside, the two lie beneath impossibly purple desert skies, staring upward as the stars loom over them.

For a moment, the desert becomes sacred. Then the film turns.

After the two move inside together, storm clouds begin swallowing the sky while purple lightning fractures across the landscape. The storm doesn’t interrupt their intimacy — it amplifies it. Desire and danger begin occupying the same emotional space. I wanted the sequence to feel like the best night of your life teetering on the edge of violence. With every flash of lightning, horrific images invade Josh’s psyche: a man bound to a barbed wire fence, an ominous cowboy gripping a bat, fragments of brutality interrupting intimacy like inherited nightmares.

By the climax of the sequence, the lovers are no longer alone. Their bed now sits exposed beneath the storm as two towering extraterrestrial beings silently observe them above. Because for me, the horror was never simply the aliens. It was the feeling of being watched while trying to love someone openly. At the final moan, Josh awakens alone — naked and abandoned beneath the brightness of the desert morning. Richard is gone.

The Desert, Memory, and Queer Trauma

Searching desperately for help, Josh instead discovers something impossible: a single black orchid growing from the dry sand. The flower mirrors the tattoo seen earlier on Richard’s arm. In panic, Josh rips the flower from the earth. Inside, a violent purple light pulses outward. Fractured memories stab through him in flashes: the dancing, the bedroom, the storm, the extraterrestrial figures looming above them. Then the desert itself revolts, erupting into blood and consuming him completely before releasing him back into the endless landscape.

By nightfall, dehydrated and unraveling, Josh discovers a lone fire burning beside an unfinished barbed wire fence. A baseball bat rests in the flames. Torn clothing hangs from the wire. Nearby, he finds a mound of disturbed earth crowned with a cowboy hat. Beneath the hat sits another black orchid.

Uncovering the Film’s Central Mystery

This time, when Josh removes it, there are no violent visions. Only silence. He begins digging. Slowly, a grave reveals itself. Inside lies a body reduced almost entirely to bone and weathered skin. Then Josh realizes who he’s looking at. Richard. Not recently dead — but buried there for years.

The Horror of “Bury Your Gays”

Josh stumbles backward in horror only to suddenly find himself seated beside Richard once more at the barbed wire fence, the same way they sat together in the bar earlier that night. Only now the atmosphere has changed completely. Romance has curdled into mourning. Richard speaks like a ghost struggling to remember his own humanity. He tells Josh the story of a man who only wanted love — and another man too terrified to survive what that love awakened inside him — and suddenly everything clicks into place.

The uneasy looks from the bar patrons were never truly about Josh. They were about what he represented: a repetition. An echo. The cowboy was never a monster in the traditional sense.

He was fear weaponized.

A closeted man who carried his self-hatred into the desert and attempted to bury it there alongside the person who exposed it. A literal manifestation of the old horror trope: “bury your gays.” Richard tells Josh it’s time to leave. The grave suddenly splits open into a violent purple void as storm clouds consume the desert once more. Before falling in, Josh looks back one final time. The extraterrestrial beings stand silently above the true history of the murder unfolding beneath them: Richard bound to the barbed wire fence while the cowboy approaches slowly with the bat in hand. Josh is no longer witnessing metaphor. He is witnessing buried history itself.

How In the Valley Reclaims Queer Horror Tropes

Josh crawls out of the grave and back into the present day. Disoriented and exhausted, he stumbles toward the bar from the beginning of the film — only now it has changed. Modern cars sit outside. The once-forgotten dive has been transformed into a stylish Airbnb. Inside, a man frantically calls the police, searching for his missing partner.

Then Josh collapses through the doorway. His own partner rushes toward him, holding him tightly in relief. And in that final moment, music begins playing softly in the background.

The spirits of Richard and the Cowboy appear together one last time, replaying their dance across the room. But now the cowboy is no longer monstrous — just young, frightened, human. Josh watches as they move together exactly as he and Richard once did. Finally, everything aligns.

The Hidden Meaning Behind In the Valley

Josh was chosen to relive this forgotten history — not simply to witness violence, but to understand survival. To recognize the privilege and responsibility of existing openly in spaces where others once had to hide. The desert did not just hold trauma. It held memories. In The Valley is intentionally layered. Viewers may miss the clues on a first watch: the body switch, the orchid tattoo, the realization that the sex scene is not simply passion but “gay panic” refracted through alien abduction imagery. The storm itself becomes psychological — terror building inside someone unable to reconcile desire with shame.

Why Horror Is the Perfect Language for Queer Stories

I never wanted to make a “clear” queer film because my experience as a queer person has never felt clear or linear. Fear rarely announces itself directly. Trauma lingers, mutates, hides in the body, resurfaces unexpectedly. Horror became the only language that felt honest enough to express it. The core of In the Valley is about the collision between passion and fear. A film wrapped in neon skies, extraterrestrials, and retro horror, but underneath, grappling with violence, shame, inherited trauma, and survival. Even the barbed wire fence carries historical weight. It directly references a young queer man whose death mirrored the imagery in the film. If you know, you know. If you don’t, I encourage you to research the history of violence against queer people, particularly in isolated spaces where secrecy and fear have too often turned deadly.

When Art and Reality Collide

Since the film’s release, it has played festivals around the world and received recognition I’m incredibly grateful for. But life has a strange way of collapsing the distance between art and reality. In February of this year, I was physically attacked for being queer for the first time in my life. The assault left me with a severe concussion and heavy bruising, and I’m still processing what it changed inside me.

The Real-World Importance of Queer Horror

More than anything, it forced me to confront a difficult realization:

The fear that inspired this film was never imaginary. It was always real.

Which is precisely why we have to keep protecting one another. Keep creating spaces for queer people to exist openly. Keep telling stories that confront what others would rather bury. And keep making horror films that remind us we survived.