If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if a Zillow listing, a true-crime podcast, and a cursed funhouse had a baby, Hell House LLC Origins: The Carmichael Manor is your answer—and that baby arrives swaddled in Super 8 film and spite. Stephen Cognetti returns to his haunted sandbox with a prequel/sequel hybrid that is equal parts lore buffet and booby-trapped hallway, and it’s the most fun I’ve had being judged by clown mannequins in years.
A Found-Footage Franchise That Actually Understands “Found”
One of the series’ secret sauces is how “found” the footage feels—tripods wobble, autofocus panics, and microphones pick up the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. The Carmichael installment doubles down: Margot, Rebecca, and Chase aren’t just witnesses, they’re archivists of catastrophe, layering VHS rot, 8mm reels, and crisp digital panic into a scrapbook the devil would treasure.
Our Trio of Ghostbait Is Delightfully Human
Bridget Rose Perrotta, Destiny Leilani Brown, and James Liddell give us a group so believably affectionate and exasperated that you hate knowing two of them are probably about to be turned into ocularly challenged cautionary tales. They’re smart enough to be credible but flawed enough to stay in the house—an essential found-footage paradox. When Chase says “the clowns moved,” you believe him and also want to throw him in the car like luggage.
The Diner of Doom and the Antique Shop of “Absolutely Not”
The franchise has always excelled at liminal spaces, and here the off-site detours sing. The antique store scene—grandfather clock, hidden reels, pendant, the works—feels like shaking lore out of a vending machine that accepts only courage and poor judgment. It’s gleefully on-the-nose in the best way: every time an employee says “Oh, that old thing?” you know someone’s about to lose a soul or a cornea.
Clown Mannequins: OSHA Would Like a Word
Yes, the clowns return, and yes, they’re still practicing the world’s slowest cardio. Cognetti weaponizes stillness like a pro: a shoulder turns, a glove tilts, a shadow blinks—and suddenly you’re negotiating with your couch about standing up. The new wrinkle—identifying Patrick beneath the greasepaint—adds tragedy to the terror. The monster is a man, and the man is a bad idea with a backstory.
Tully’s Cult: HR Department of the Beyond
Our old frenemy Andrew Tully remains the franchise’s spectral CEO, and Carmichael Manor broadens his corporate footprint. Through Catherine’s reels and the pendant’s history, the film threads Tully’s doctrine into the Carmichael tragedy with a cozy, culty inevitability. It’s less “surprise twist” and more “oh, of course the pyramid scheme of doom has regional offices.”
Ghosts Who Bring Receipts
Catherine’s spectral cameos are effectively mean. She’s not a CGI banshee; she’s grief weaponized—film scratches, a hand out of frame, a presence that sours the room and your breakfast. The moment she interrupts a very normal presentation like a demonic PowerPoint pop-up is a chef’s-kiss collision of banality and dread. If Zoom had a “haunt meeting” feature, she’d be the template.
Structure Like a Haunted Russian Doll
The film’s architecture is a nifty nesting trick: a present-day investigation unwraps home movies that unwrap an old crime that unwraps an older evil. Each reveal reframes the previous scene without the franchise’s favorite sin—over-explaining. We get breadcrumbs, not a guided tour, which is ideal because the guide would be a clown with a box cutter.
Death by Battery, Text, and Denial
Carmichael Manor understands that modern horror lives at the intersection of “my car won’t start” and “my phone just gaslit me.” Dead batteries strand, corrupted messages taunt, and every attempt at rational flight dumps Margot and Rebecca back into the manor’s hungry geometry. The time loop is emotional, not literal: grief keeps you in the room long after the door is open.
Sound Design That Hates You Personally
The jump scares land, but it’s the sneaky sounds that bruise you: film reels chewing air, a grandfather clock coughing seconds, a clown’s breath just outside the frame. The score is restrained and resentful, like a choir forced to rehearse in a basement where something keeps turning off the lights. If you watch with good headphones, you’ll invent a new swear word.
The Performances Bleed (And Lead)
Perrotta gives Margot a wounded resolve that sells both the child-carnival trauma and the adult “I’m staying because I need answers” spiral. Brown brings pragmatic tenderness to Rebecca, a partner who believes in love but also in leaving—tragically, a skill she’s denied. Liddell’s Chase radiates fratty charm that curdles into abject terror, and when he goes missing, the house feels fuller, not emptier, which is… not comforting.
Lore That Expands Without Explaining You to Death
Prequels love to explain. This one prefers to insinuate. We learn enough about the Carmichaels—Margaret’s death, Patrick’s paralysis and obsession, Catherine’s protective desperation—to understand the rot, but the film leaves mortar between the bricks. The Abaddon artifacts tie neatly without feeling like a brand synergy memo; it plays like history, not homework.
The Mid-Credits Wink You Deserve
The franchise knows its audience well enough to slip a jaunty little tease into the credits: the fair is coming back to town, and a clown peeks through a window like a landlord who collects rent in screams. It’s playful, shameless, and exactly the sort of promise this series keeps: we’ll be back, and so will you, because you’re terrible at self-preservation and we love that about you.
A Few Quibbles, Lovingly Impaled
Is every scare novel? No. Are there moments where “don’t split up” comes to mind like a prayer? Absolutely. But the film’s pace, texture, and knack for weaponizing negative space keep even familiar beats sharp. If you require four new subgenres per minute, go adopt a multiverse; this is classic craft done confidently.
Verdict: A Cozy Nightmare with Killer Clowns and Better Canon
Hell House LLC Origins: The Carmichael Manor delivers a franchise high point—an atmosphere-first, lore-rich creeper that respects its mythology while finding fresh angles (and hallways) to haunt. It’s scary without screaming at you, funny in the gallows way (“Have you tried turning the car off and on again?”), and surprisingly poignant in its portrait of grief’s endless loop.
If the Abaddon Hotel was the series’ crown jewel, Carmichael Manor is the secret passage behind it—dustier, sadder, and somehow deadlier. Bring snacks, bring a nightlight, and for the love of all that is holy, do not make eye contact with the clowns. They were moving before you looked, and they’ll still be moving after you run.
