His House (2025) returns with a slow, devastating burn that proves true horror doesn’t come from the monsters outside — but from the memories we refuse to bury. In this gripping continuation of Remi Weekes’ 2020 masterpiece, the story shifts across the Atlantic, trading the desolate British flat of the first film for a small American town where safety feels like an illusion. What begins as refuge becomes revelation — a nightmare where grief takes shape, and guilt becomes flesh.
The film follows Bol and Rial’s surviving relatives, Mariam (Sheila Atim) and Daniel (Chiwetel Ejiofor), as they arrive in the United States seeking asylum after years of displacement. They are given a dilapidated house on the edge of a floodplain — “temporary housing,” their caseworker assures them. The house smells of mold and echoes with whispers at night. When a child’s laughter begins to seep through the walls, Mariam realizes they’ve inherited more than shelter — they’ve inherited something cursed.
Director Remi Weekes once again proves himself a master of psychological horror. His approach is deliberate and suffocating — every creak, every pause, every breath is weaponized. The domestic becomes monstrous, and trauma becomes architecture. Weekes doesn’t rely on jump scares; he lets dread ferment, turning the mundane into the macabre. His command of tone is total — the film feels like it’s mourning while it terrifies.
Sheila Atim is extraordinary as Mariam. Her performance radiates quiet strength cracked by unbearable sorrow. She plays grief not as hysteria but as gravity — something that pulls her down, frame by frame. Ejiofor’s Daniel complements her perfectly, his practicality eroding into paranoia as visions consume him. Together, they form a portrait of love corroded by memory — two people trying to hold each other while drowning in what they can’t forget.
The cinematography by Jo Willems is hypnotic. Water becomes both motif and menace — leaking from ceilings, filling hallways, reflecting ghosts in its surface. The camera lingers on reflections, distortions, and decay, blurring the line between haunting and hallucination. Each shot feels soaked in sorrow, every drop of water carrying history’s weight.
The sound design is suffocatingly effective. Distant footsteps in flooded rooms, whispers behind closed doors, and the faint echo of a lullaby sung in Dinka twist the senses. Composer Roque Baños returns with a score that feels less like music and more like memory — hollow drums and trembling strings pulsing like a restless heart.
Thematically, His House (2025) digs even deeper into what the first film began — the inescapability of trauma. It’s not a story of survival, but of inheritance. The ghosts that follow Mariam and Daniel are not punished souls; they are reflections — the weight of those left behind, the unspoken sins that migration forces people to carry across borders. The film asks a simple, brutal question: what if moving forward means inviting the dead along?
When the missing child reappears — half-seen, soaked, and whispering secrets no one should know — the line between guilt and haunting collapses. The house itself transforms, its walls pulsing like lungs, its floors rippling like water. The final act descends into surreal terror as the couple realizes they are not being haunted by the child’s spirit, but by their own choices. They didn’t escape the war. They brought it with them — in their hearts, their dreams, and their silence.
In its climax, Mariam confronts the demon that has taken the shape of her lost son. The confrontation is less exorcism than confession — a shattering acknowledgment of what she sacrificed to survive. As she holds the apparition in her arms, the water rises to the ceiling, washing away illusion and truth alike. In the stillness that follows, she whispers, “Home isn’t where you live. It’s what you can’t leave behind.”
The final scene mirrors the first film’s quiet devastation. The house remains standing — empty, flooded, and alive. As dawn breaks, the walls whisper again, softly, like breath through broken pipes. The ghosts are still there. But now, they’re not angry. They’re waiting.
His House (2025) is a triumph of horror with purpose — as emotionally raw as it is terrifying. It’s not about monsters hiding in the dark, but about the grief that refuses to die in the light. Weekes has created not a sequel, but a requiem — for home, for history, and for the ghosts we all keep.
The war ends when the guns go silent.
But for some, it keeps echoing — inside the walls. 🕯️
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