movie review
Movie reviews for horror fans; from gruesome bone-chillers to dark horror thrillers, a showcase for frightful films that seek to entertain and to terrify.
The House at Raven’s Hollow
M Mehran No one in our town went near the house at Raven’s Hollow after sunset. They said it was cursed, that shadows moved inside its walls even on the brightest days. I had always laughed at such tales—until the night I dared to enter. --- The Dare It began as a dare. My friends, eager to prove their bravery, challenged me to spend an hour inside the abandoned house. I shrugged, pretending I wasn’t nervous. “It’s just an old house,” I said. But as I stood in front of the rusted gates, something in the air felt wrong. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying a faint, almost human sigh. I swallowed hard, convincing myself it was just the breeze. --- First Steps The front door groaned as I pushed it open, the sound echoing like a scream down the empty hallway. Dust hung in the air, thick as fog. Broken furniture lay scattered, and cobwebs draped the corners like ghostly curtains. I flicked on my flashlight, its beam trembling in my hands. Every creak of the floorboards made me jump. I told myself I’d stay only an hour—but as soon as I stepped further in, a strange chill ran down my spine. --- The Shadows It started subtly. I saw a shadow move at the edge of my vision, though I was alone—or so I thought. Each time I turned, nothing was there. But the sense of being watched grew stronger. I reached the living room, where an old portrait hung crooked on the wall. The eyes seemed to follow me, their painted gaze unnervingly alive. Then, in the corner, I thought I saw someone—or something—sitting in the shadows. My heart pounded, but I convinced myself it was imagination. --- Whispers in the Dark As I climbed the staircase, whispers began. Faint, almost inaudible, but unmistakable. “Leave… now… leave…” They came from the walls, the floors, everywhere at once. I froze, gripping the railing. My flashlight flickered, and in that brief darkness, I could feel breath against my neck. I spun around, but no one was there. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out the whispers, yet they persisted. --- The Room at the End I remembered the last dare: to enter the room at the end of the hall. The door was partially open, its hinges squealing in protest as I pushed it further. Inside, the air was colder. My breath turned to mist. The room was empty—except for a mirror, framed in blackened oak. I stepped closer, and my reflection stared back. At first, it was normal. Then, slowly, it smiled. A smile I hadn’t given it. I stumbled back, tripping over the carpet. The reflection moved, independent of me, its grin widening, eyes gleaming with malice. I tried to look away, but the mirror seemed to pull me in, whispering promises of darkness I could not resist. --- The Escape I ran. Down the stairs, through the living room, past the portrait whose eyes now seemed furious. The whispers became screams, echoing from every corner. The shadows stretched, reaching for me with cold, skeletal hands. The front door was in sight, but it slammed shut before I could touch it. Panic surged. I slammed my shoulder against it, once, twice, three times. Finally, it gave way. I burst into the night, gasping for air. The wind had stopped. The house stood silent, still as if nothing had happened. --- The Mark I told my friends what I saw. They laughed, but I could see the doubt in their eyes. That night, I realized that some stories are not made up. Some houses remember the people who enter. Some mirrors remember faces—and hunger for more. The worst part came the next morning. On my arm, I found a small, dark mark shaped like a claw. I didn’t remember being scratched, but the pain was sharp, real. And when I looked in the mirror, my reflection was slightly… different. Smiling back at me. --- The Lesson I never returned to Raven’s Hollow. I avoid daredevils, abandoned places, and mirrors at night. But the memory follows me. Every time I see a shadow flicker, every time a whisper brushes my ear, I wonder if the house is still calling me. Some nights, I wake to find the mark glowing faintly, reminding me that the boundary between us and the darkness is thinner than I ever imagined. Raven’s Hollow is waiting. And it remembers.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Horror
Lokah Chapter 1: Chandra – Review & Rating
stry has for long dreamed of producing a superhero saga of global standards. While most recent attempts have attempted to do this by depending extensively on visual effects and mythological references, they tended to fall short of that great storytelling ethos. Lokah Chapter 1: Chandra, directed by Dominic Arun, is evidence that the answer does not lie entirely with expensive CGI but in developing a narrative that is emotionally solid, culturally rooted, and fleshed out by characters. A New Heroine in Familiar Myths The film introduces us to Chandra (Kalyani Priyadarshan), a woman who comes back to India after years in Sweden. She appears like just another young urban professional forging a life for herself in Bengaluru at first glance. But we quickly discover about her strange curse—she cannot enter sunlight because her skin literally scalds the moment she is under it. Her nights are her freedom; her days, her imprisonment. Gradually, the film strips away the reality: Chandra is indeed Kalliyankattu Neeli, one of Kerala's best-known yakshis from legend. Far from the popular images of Neeli as an evil spirit, Dominic Arun re-imagine her as a misunderstood protector. She transforms into a force for justice, an individual who battles for the marginalized and the oppressed. This feminist reinterpretation not only supersedes convention but also bestows Indian cinema with its first fully realized female superhero. Grounded Storytelling, and Not Blind Mythology Where Lokah succeeds is in refusing to succumb to the temptation to blind copy-paste gods, rituals, and mythologies as shortcuts for grandeur. Instead, the screenplay anchors the story in socio-political history, tribal heritage, and lived reality of marginalized folks. Through this, it offers a fantasy film that is real, relatable, and respectful of cultural memory. Contrary to Kalki 2898 AD or Brahmāstra, which attempted to wow with interstellar references and costly action, Lokah is aware that spectacle without emotion is fleeting. In this one, spectacle and emotion are both included, in careful equipoise. Technical Excellence with a Goal One of the best things about the movie is how the technical team is harmoniously integrated. Cinematographer Nimish Ravi uses a rich and muted color palette that suits the mysterious mood of the story. His camera never tries to over-romanticize Bengaluru but instead blends the city into the life of Chandra at night. Editor Chaman Chakko is rhythmic and varying, depending on the need of the scene—sometimes frenetic and chaotic, and at other times calm and reflective. The visual grandeur is supplemented by equally sharp writing. Additional screenplay work from Santhy Balachandran provides emotional authenticity. Despite the over-powering special effects, the audience is never lost, as human emotions remain at the center. The action choreography by Yannick Ben, especially in the pre-interval flashback where Chandra's back-story meets modern-day action, is a stand-out in itself that compares with some of the best global superhero films.
By Kiruthigaran Mohanabout a year ago in Horror
The House on Ash Lane
M Mehran Nobody in town went near the house on Ash Lane after dark. The windows were always dark, the garden wild, the air heavy with silence. Children dared each other to touch its rusted gate, but even the bravest sprinted away before pushing it open. For most people, the house was just a story, a rumor to scare newcomers. But for Claire, it was a mystery she couldn’t ignore. She was a journalist for the local paper, always chasing small-town tales, always hungry for something real. When whispers about “screams from the house” and “lights flickering at midnight” reached her desk, she knew she had to see for herself. On a cold October evening, she set out with nothing but her notebook, flashlight, and recorder. The gate groaned when she pushed it open, the sound slicing through the night. Weeds brushed her ankles as she walked the path, and the front door loomed taller with every step. Inside, the air was stale, tinged with mold and something metallic—like rust… or blood. Dust cloaked the furniture, and broken picture frames lay scattered on the floor. Her flashlight beam caught glimpses: peeling wallpaper, a rocking chair that moved slightly though no one sat in it, a staircase yawning into darkness. “Just the wind,” Claire whispered, though the house was perfectly still. She clicked on her recorder. “October 12th. Entered the Ash Lane house at 8:47 p.m. Initial impressions: abandoned, but—” A creak. Claire froze. The sound had come from upstairs. Her instincts screamed to leave, but curiosity rooted her in place. She climbed the staircase, each step groaning louder than the last. The air grew colder, her breath fogging in front of her. At the top, her flashlight flickered. “Not now,” she muttered, shaking it. The light steadied, revealing a hallway of closed doors. She picked the nearest one and turned the handle. The room beyond was a child’s bedroom. Faded wallpaper of stars and moons clung to the walls. A doll sat upright on the bed, its glass eyes fixed on the door. The air smelled faintly of rot. Claire lifted her recorder again. “Evidence of a child’s room. Strange that the doll seems—” The doll’s head turned. Claire gasped, stumbling back. The flashlight slipped from her hand, rolling across the floor. In the shifting beam, she saw the doll rise slowly to its feet. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible.” But the doll’s tiny porcelain lips cracked open, and a child’s voice rasped: “Get out.” The room plunged into darkness. Claire snatched up the flashlight, her hands trembling. When she flicked it back on, the doll was gone. Panic clawed at her chest. She bolted from the room, running blindly down the hall. Behind her, tiny footsteps pattered, faster and faster. A laugh—high-pitched, hollow—echoed down the corridor. She burst into another room and slammed the door. Her flashlight beam landed on a cracked mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. Her reflection stared back—only it wasn’t her. The face in the glass was pale, eyes sunken, lips stitched shut with black thread. Its head tilted slowly, as though studying her. Then, without warning, it raised a hand and pressed it against the inside of the mirror. Claire’s scream tore from her throat. She stumbled backward as cracks spidered across the glass. The stitched-lip reflection pushed harder, its hollow eyes fixed on her. She spun and ran, tearing through the hall, down the stairs, toward the front door. But when she reached it, the door was gone. In its place stood a wall of rotting wood. “No, no, no—” She clawed at it, her fingernails splitting. The laughter returned, louder now, echoing from every direction. The walls seemed to close in, the house groaning as though alive. Her recorder crackled in her pocket. She yanked it out, hoping to capture proof. But instead of her own voice, a child’s whisper hissed from the speaker: “She belongs to us now.” Claire dropped the recorder, her chest heaving. And then, silence. When her flashlight flickered again, she found herself standing in the child’s bedroom once more. The doll was back on the bed, its porcelain head cocked at an unnatural angle. This time, its glass eyes blinked. The last thing Claire saw before the light died was the doll’s tiny hand reaching for hers. --- The next morning, the townsfolk noticed something strange. The house on Ash Lane no longer looked abandoned. Its windows glowed faintly, as if someone were inside. On the gate, hanging by a rusted chain, was a recorder. When one brave soul pressed play, a woman’s trembling voice filled the air: “October 12th. Entered the Ash Lane house at 8:47 p.m. Initial impressions: abandoned, but…” Then static. No one ever saw Claire again. And at night, if you walk past Ash Lane, you might hear her voice whispering from behind the windows, begging you to come inside.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Horror
Confirmed: The Amytiville Horror franchise will add a new movie
To the delight of horror fans, The Amytiville Horror franchise has decided to add a new film to the legendary saga. It should be noted that this fictional universe has more than thirty films, including prequels, spin-offs, and sequels. Not all of the stories are connected chronologically to the original 1979 film, The Amytiville Horror, but they belong to the same universe.
By Ninfa Galeanoabout a year ago in Horror
When the Dead Walked
The world as I knew it ended the day the dead began to walk. It started small, almost unnoticed—a strange virus spreading through remote villages, isolated cases reported on the news. At first, it seemed like another headline to scroll past, a weird flu, a localized epidemic. But then the reports escalated: people attacking their friends and family with unnatural ferocity, bodies reanimating after death, relentless and hungry.
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Horror
