Welcome to the Airbnb From Hell (and Not in the Fun Way)
There are bad horror movies, and then there are horror movies that feel like someone filmed a group therapy session inside a Spirit Halloween clearance aisle. House of Demons (2018), directed and written by Patrick Meaney, falls firmly into the latter category. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a séance conducted by a film school dropout who keeps asking, “Wait, is this thing on?”
The setup sounds deceptively promising: four estranged friends reunite for a weekend in a creepy house that once hosted a Manson Family–style cult. What could go wrong? Spoiler: everything, but not in the way you’d hope.
This movie wants to be The Haunting of Hill House meets Donnie Darko by way of a YouTube meditation ad. Instead, it’s more like Scooby-Doo without the dog, the mystery, or the charm — just a bunch of emotionally stunted adults talking about their feelings while ghosts of LSD enthusiasts float around in the background.
The Plot (Or, “A Group of Millennials Go to Therapy and Accidentally Summon Boredom”)
The story follows four friends — Gwen, Matthew, Katrina, and Spencer — who reunite for a wedding weekend in a rental house. It’s the kind of setup that usually ends with someone getting possessed, decapitated, or at least losing cell service. Unfortunately, in House of Demons, none of those things happen quickly enough to keep you awake.
It turns out the house was once home to a 1960s cult led by a scientist named Frazer (played by Dove Meir, who looks like he’s cosplaying Charles Manson after watching too much Doctor Who). Frazer’s cult experimented with “expanding consciousness,” which apparently involves lighting candles, doing interpretive dance, and monologuing about “breaking through dimensions” like they’re trying to sell ayahuasca retreats.
When the four friends arrive, the house starts doing that “spooky time warp” thing where the past and present blur together. Ghosts of cultists pop up to whisper vague nonsense like “You must face your darkness,” while the characters stand around looking like they’re trying to remember their lines.
There’s a lot of talk about trauma, guilt, and personal demons — hence the title — but the script’s idea of deep psychological exploration is about as subtle as a BuzzFeed quiz titled “Which Repressed Memory Are You?”
The movie’s tagline might as well be: Come for the demons, stay for the unresolved childhood issues.
The Cast: Acting, or Just Extended Existential Crisis?
Let’s talk about the cast, because they’re all clearly giving it their best — it’s just that their best feels like a local theater production of Inception: The Musical.
Kaytlin Borgen plays Gwen, who seems to be channeling “traumatized but chill” energy. She spends most of the movie looking like she’s perpetually two seconds away from asking to speak to a manager about her emotional baggage.
Morgan Peter Brown, as Spencer, does his best “gritty introspection” impression, which mostly involves furrowing his brow and muttering lines like, “We can’t escape the past.” Watching him is like watching someone audition for True Detective in a room full of incense.
Whitney Moore’s Katrina and Jeff Torres’s Matthew round out the group, each with their own tragic backstories that the film dumps on us like emotional confetti. None of it matters, of course, because every scene ends with someone staring off into space like they just remembered they left the stove on.
And then there’s Dove Meir as Frazer — the cult leader who thinks he’s part scientist, part prophet, and all nonsense. He delivers every line with the intensity of a man explaining quantum physics to his reflection in the mirror. His “experiments” involve psychedelic montages and heavy breathing, which, come to think of it, is also how this movie makes the audience feel.
The Cult: Charles Manson Meets Community Theater
Frazer’s cult is supposed to be this sinister, drug-fueled commune exploring consciousness. In practice, they look like a group of unpaid extras from a yoga retreat who accidentally wandered onto set. They chant, they writhe, they occasionally bleed — and yet, somehow, they’re still less interesting than the guy from accounting who overshares at the office holiday party.
There’s even a “Demon,” played by Paradox Pollack — yes, that’s a real name — who appears sporadically to look slimy and deliver lines that sound like rejected poetry from a Hot Topic catalog. He’s meant to be terrifying, but his makeup looks like someone attacked him with a bucket of strawberry jam.
The Tone: Existential Horror Meets Soap Opera Lighting
To call House of Demons uneven would be like calling the ocean “a little damp.” The film can’t decide if it wants to be a psychological horror, a trippy metaphysical drama, or an after-school special about friendship. It ends up being all three, badly.
Every time things start to get interesting — like when reality begins to fracture or someone gets haunted by their past — the film slams the brakes for another monologue about regret. By the halfway point, you’re begging for the cult to show up and sacrifice someone just to liven things up.
The visuals try for that dreamy, ethereal vibe, but the lighting looks like a music video for Enya shot on a budget of expired LED bulbs. The cinematography gives off major “first-year film student experimenting with color filters” energy.
Pacing: A Spiritual Journey Into Slow Motion
If horror is about tension, House of Demons is about patience. The first hour drags like a séance conducted in real time. Characters whisper about “energy” and “shadows,” but the only thing truly supernatural here is how time seems to stop entirely.
When the horror finally kicks in — and by “kicks in,” I mean “lightly jogs by” — it’s too little, too late. The demons appear, people scream, reality folds in on itself, and somehow it’s still boring. It’s like watching The Haunting of Hill House rewritten by people who thought “emotional catharsis” meant everyone should cry in the same room under a flickering bulb.
Symbolism and the Quest for Meaning (Please Send Help)
The film wants to explore trauma, guilt, and the human psyche. It’s trying so hard to be profound that it ends up being accidentally hilarious. Every few minutes, someone says something like:
“We are all echoes of ourselves, trapped in the frequency of memory.”
Translation: We had no idea what this script meant, but it sounded deep when we wrote it.
The result is a movie that mistakes confusion for depth. It’s like Inception if Christopher Nolan had a concussion and a camera he found in a pawn shop.
Amber Benson: The Buffy Alum Who Deserved Better
Amber Benson, known for her role as Tara on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, appears here as Maya, a minor character who exists mainly to remind us that she’s capable of far better things. Her presence is like finding a diamond in a gas station parking lot — you’re happy it’s there, but you’re mostly just sad about the surroundings.
Final Thoughts: More “House of Meh” Than “House of Demons”
By the end, everyone faces their “inner darkness,” which, in this case, is the realization that they’ve wasted a perfectly good weekend. The movie limps to a conclusion filled with pseudo-spiritual babble and glowing lights that look suspiciously like the screensaver from Windows 98.
In the grand pantheon of haunted house horror, House of Demons doesn’t belong anywhere near the top. It’s not scary, it’s not insightful, and it’s not even weird enough to be memorable. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a dream you can’t remember but still feel vaguely embarrassed about.
If you’re looking for psychological horror that actually messes with your head, go watch Hereditary. If you’re looking for a movie about cults, try Martha Marcy May Marlene. If you’re looking for a movie where everyone cries in a cabin while demons yawn, congratulations — you’ve found your masterpiece.
Final Rating: ★★☆☆☆
(Two out of five haunted yoga mats — one for effort, one for Amber Benson, and none for coherence.)
