The Haunted House of Mediocrity
The Scarehouse opens like a thousand other horror films that thought they were being clever: a group of ex-sorority sisters get invited to a haunted attraction by their long-lost pals, and—surprise!—the attraction is the setup for revenge. What follows is ninety minutes of jump scares, cheap lighting, and dialogue that sounds like it was written by someone who just learned about trauma from a BuzzFeed quiz.
Sarah Booth (as Corey) and Kimberly-Sue Murray (as Elaina) play the vengeful duo, the wronged ex-members who apparently took “sisterhood” to mean “murder pact.” The pair lure their former sisters into a haunted house for a night of reckoning—though “reckoning” here translates to “elaborate murder traps that make Saw look like performance art.”
The house is real (filmed in Windsor’s actual haunted attraction), but the scares? Factory made. Every corridor looks like a Spirit Halloween warehouse after a hurricane. There’s fake blood on every wall, and not an ounce of real tension to go with it.
Sorority of the Damned (and Poorly Written)
The characters, each with the personality depth of a wet cardboard box, exist solely to die. Katherine Barrell’s Jaqueline is “the one who screams a lot,” Jennifer Miller’s Lisa is “the one who deserves it,” and so on. If you’ve seen one horror archetype, you’ve seen this whole cast.
The dialogue makes you nostalgic for silent cinema. “You think this is funny?!” one girl shrieks, as though auditioning for a shampoo commercial. The script doesn’t so much flow as it clunks from one scene to another, dragging its fake bloodied heels across every cliché in the genre’s graveyard.
Still, you have to admire the commitment—if only because everyone looks like they were promised real acting careers after this.
A Vengeance Plot Without Bite
The revenge story could’ve been juicy. Two outcasts getting back at their toxic sorority? There’s meat there. But this film grills it until it’s leather. The motive for revenge feels tacked on, and the moral reckoning—if you can call it that—has the emotional weight of a middle school fight over stolen eyeliner.
Instead of exploring guilt, complicity, or female rage, The Scarehouse goes for “boobs, blood, and banter.” The camera lingers lovingly on gore but forgets to linger on logic. Halfway through, you stop rooting for anyone to survive and start rooting for the end credits to arrive.
Direction: A Haunted Carnival Ride Going Nowhere
Director Gavin Michael Booth clearly loves his haunted houses. Unfortunately, he films them like a real estate tour—lots of rooms, very little purpose. The lighting is chaotic; the editing feels like it was done during a sugar crash. You can almost hear the director whispering, “This will look great on Netflix!” while the boom mic dips into frame.
There are flashes—just flashes—of creativity. A few traps are inventive, and the sound design occasionally lands a jolt. But for every moment of genuine craft, there are ten that look like a YouTube short made by enthusiastic teens with a fog machine.
It’s not that The Scarehouse is unwatchable. It’s that it’s aggressively fine, the cinematic equivalent of lukewarm cider on Halloween night. You’ll sip, shrug, and forget it existed before the pumpkin goes bad.
Performances: The Blood Is Real, The Emotion Isn’t
Sarah Booth, doubling as star and co-writer, deserves a medal for trying. You can see her working to elevate the material, giving Corey a mix of icy vengeance and twitchy remorse. Kimberly-Sue Murray matches her intensity, and together they manage to sell a few moments of genuine menace.
But the rest of the cast—God bless them—are cannon fodder. They scream, they plead, they die. That’s their job description. You could replace half of them with crash test dummies in wigs and no one would notice.
The Real Horror: Post-Production
It’s almost endearing to know this film was shot in 22 days. You can feel every one of those days in the rushed edits and flat sound design. The color grading swings wildly from “underground rave” to “crime scene footage.” Even the blood looks confused—sometimes bright red, sometimes dark brown, occasionally pink, like Pepto-Bismol for the damned.
The film’s pacing limps along, with each “kill” scene dragging on too long, as though the editor was paid by the scream. At 84 minutes, The Scarehouse still somehow feels like it’s three hours long. You start checking your watch, then your pulse.
The Haunted House That Could’ve Been
There’s a great short film buried somewhere inside The Scarehouse. The premise—two betrayed women turning a haunted attraction into a chamber of vengeance—is ripe for satire, terror, or at least a sense of twisted fun. But the film plays it too safe, mistaking gore for grit and shock for substance.
Imagine Mean Girls meets Saw, but both took a nap halfway through production. That’s The Scarehouse. It’s neither scary nor campy enough to be memorable. It’s a haunted house ride that forgets to move.
Final Verdict: Trick, Not Treat
By the end, you’re left with questions. Not about the plot—no one cares—but about the filmmaking choices. Who thought the dialogue was ready for public consumption? Why is the lighting brighter than a dentist’s office? And why does every character sound like they’re narrating their own death scene?
Maybe that’s the ultimate trick of The Scarehouse: you go in expecting horror, but the real terror is realizing you’ve wasted your night on a movie that should’ve stayed in post-production purgatory.
If revenge is a dish best served cold, The Scarehouse left it out on the counter too long. It’s spoiled, sloppy, and somehow proud of it. You’ll laugh, but not when the film wants you to.
Rating: 🎃½ out of 5
Recommended only if your Halloween candy came with a free sense of irony.
