Reclaiming the Final Girl: Black Women’s Legacy in Horror
Horror’s Final Girl trope has been stuck on repeat longer than a scratched VHS, and it’s past time we switched the tape. You know the drill: some white chick with perfect bangs and a quivering lip staggers through a bloodbath, somehow limping to the credits pure as a choirgirl. Laurie Strode kicked it off in Halloween, dodging Michael Myers’ blade with a scream that could shatter glass, and the genre’s been photocopying that blueprint ever since. But let’s cut the noise—Black women have been the real champs of survival in this game from the jump, and they don’t just scrape by; they rip up the script and rewrite the ending.
Take Jeryline from Tales from the Crypt: Demon Knight. She’s not clutching a teddy bear, waiting for a white knight. She’s too busy staring down demons and spitting in their faces, with a backbone forged from a legacy tougher than a rusty switchblade.
If you haven’t seen Demon Knight (1995), stop sleeping on it—it’s a banger. Jada Pinkett Smith storms in as Jeryline, an ex-con slinging attitude at a nowhere motel, rocking a cropped leather jacket and a glare that could stop a truck. When Brayker (William Sadler) crashes her night with a key full of holy blood and a pack of hellspawn on his heels, Jeryline doesn’t flinch. She’s in it, reading the room like she’s dodged worse on a Monday. There’s this killer moment when Billy Zane’s Collector—smarmy as hell—corners her, dripping charm and venom, trying to sweet-talk that key out of her grip.
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Your average Final Girl would’ve folded, maybe sobbed into her scrunchie. Jeryline? She locks eyes, cool as hell, grabs a bottle of that sacred juice, and douses him like he’s a grease fire. His skin melts, he screeches, and she just stands there, unfazed. It’s not luck; it’s street-smarts, the kind you earn when life’s been swinging haymakers since day one. By the end, she’s not just alive—she’s the new Demon Knight, anointed with the key’s power, spitting at Zane’s retreating shadow as he slinks back to hell. That’s not surviving; that’s owning it.
Jeryline’s no fluke—she’s a mirror for every Black woman who’s ever had to claw through a world rigged to break her. When she snatches that key and steps up as humanity’s shield, it’s not random—it’s centuries of Black women keeping the lights on when the dark’s closing in. Horror loves to fetishize fragility—give us a Final Girl who’s all trembles and tears—but Black women bring a different heat. It’s survival with grit, defiance baked in, and Jeryline’s got it dripping from every pore. She’s not about staying innocent; she’s about staying alive, and that’s a power move the genre’s ignored too long.
Also Read: Who Is The Best Final Girl of All Time?
Here’s the rub—horror’s been hitting snooze on Black women forever. Too often, they’re the sidekick who catches a knife early to juice up the white lead’s arc. Think Selena in 28 Days Later. Naomi Harris is out there slicing infected with a machete and a stare that could stop a train, but she’s still backing up Cillian Murphy’s lost puppy routine. Or Liz in The Purge: Election Year. Betty Gabriel’s bartender holds her own against purge-night lunatics, yet the camera’s glued to the white senator’s story. It’s a tired tune, and Jeryline smashes it to bits. She’s not there to prop up anybody—she is the story, outsmarting demons and walking off bloody but unbowed.
Every dodge and counter she pulls is a middle finger to the genre’s lazy habits and the messed-up world beyond it. It’s a love letter to Black women who’ve turned survival into a revolution, whether they’re facing a demon or a system just as nasty. Forget who screams loudest—the Final Girl’s the one still standing when the screen fades out, and Jeryline owns that crown. She’s got company, too.
Also Read: How I Reclaimed the Final Girl as an Asexual
Look at Mari in Ma (2019). Octavia Spencer flips the game, going from prey to predator with a slow-burn vengeance that’s pure fire. That scene where she’s stitching up a kid she’s trapped, all calm and menacing, turning survival into something dark and tasty. Or Kiesha in Candyman (1992). Vanessa Estelle Williams faces the hook with a quiet steel that cuts deeper than any jump scare, outlasting the myth with nothing but her wits. These aren’t just wins; they’re redefinitions, and horror’s way overdue to treat them right.
The new Final Girl isn’t playing by the old rules. Jeryline and her crew prove survival’s more than dodging a blade. It’s locking eyes with the monster, whether it’s got horns or a badge, and saying, “Not today, fam.” Black women have been pulling that off since forever, onscreen and off, and they’re horror’s real MVPs. They don’t just make it to the end—they rewrite what the end even looks like. Let’s keep their stories loud—because if anyone’s earned the last word, it’s them.
Categorized:Editorials
