I put on The Witch (the one with the VV) after the kids slept. Lights off. Tea hot. Blanket up to my chin. You know what? My tea went cold. I didn’t even notice. I was that tense.
(Honestly, I unpack the whole nerve-shredding watch in this longer breakdown if you want every sweaty detail.)
What’s the deal here?
It’s a small farm on the edge of a dark wood. New England. Old days. A family gets kicked out of their town for church stuff. So they build a tiny life near the trees. Then things go wrong. Like, real wrong.
There’s a goat named Black Phillip. Two creepy twins. A teen boy who wants to be brave. A girl, Thomasin, who gets blamed for everything. And a mother and father who try to pray it all away. The more they pray, the worse it feels.
Scenes that stuck to my ribs
I won’t spoil every beat, but these moments still sit in my head:
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The peekaboo scene: Thomasin plays with her baby brother. She covers her eyes, laughs, opens them—and the baby is gone. The wind stops. The field looks empty. My whole body froze. I’m a mom, so yeah, that tore me up.
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The apple: Caleb, the brother, gets sick. He shakes and cries out to God. He spits up an apple. The sound of it hitting the floor is small but sharp. I gripped my blanket so hard my knuckles hurt.
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The twins and the goat: The twins sing to Black Phillip like he’s a friend. They whisper to him too. I grew up around goats for a bit—my aunt kept two—and their eyes always weirded me out. Watching that goat stare back? Nope. Hard pass. But also, I couldn’t look away.
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The crow at night: The mother “feeds” a crow in a dream. It’s quiet, but you hear a soft peck. Then another. It’s not gore. It’s worse. It’s that quiet pain you can’t stop.
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The last talk in the barn: A voice from the dark asks Thomasin a question. “Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?” My breath caught. The voice is so calm. So smooth. I can still hear it.
How it looks and sounds (and why it works)
Here’s the thing: the movie uses candle light and gray skies. Real candles. You can see the smoke and the wick. The woods feel wet and cold. The camera sits still and just waits. It makes your brain fill the silence with fear.
The sound design is mean in the best way. Creaking wood. Wind that almost whistles but not quite. Then that score by Mark Korven—low, scratchy strings, voices that blur. It’s not loud. It creeps.
And the talk is old-time church talk. It’s thick. But it fits the mood. Ralph Ineson’s voice rumbles like a drum. Anya Taylor-Joy looks like a kid and an adult all at once. That face tells whole chapters without a word.
Small note, because I’m a nerd: they shot it to feel tight, boxy. The farm looks tiny. The woods look huge. So you feel trapped. It works.
What I loved
- The slow burn: No cheap jumps every two minutes. It crawls, then snaps.
- The world-building: The clothes, the prayer, the food, the dirt under nails. It feels real.
- Black Phillip: Best goat performance. I’m half-joking, but also I’m not.
- The ending: It lands. It lingers. It’s bold, and it made my skin buzz.
Many critics felt the same way; The Guardian praised the film’s “nerve-fraying” restraint, while TIME’s own take called it a “visceral New England folktale” that seeps into your bones.
If slow-burn chills set in creaky houses are your comfort food, Ted Geoghegan’s frost-bitten ghost story We Are Still Here scratches that exact itch.
What bugged me (a little)
- The old speech: Sometimes I needed subtitles. I turned them on after five minutes. No shame.
- The pace: It’s not a roller coaster. It’s a cold, slow climb. If you want splashy scares, you might get bored.
- The chaos with the animals: Real goats do what they want. A scene or two feels messy. It fits, but still.
A tiny detour: woods are loud at night
I once camped in Maine in late fall. No phones. No lights. The trees clicked all night. Owls screamed like babies. This film nails that feeling. The woods aren’t empty. They’re busy. That’s the fear here—life in the dark, just out of sight.
How to watch it right
- Use subtitles. Trust me.
- Kill the lights. Keep your phone in another room.
- Good sound helps. A pair of headphones made it hit harder.
- Don’t watch with kids. Or right before a big test. Sleep matters.
Who will like this?
- Folks who loved Hereditary or The Babadook.
- People who enjoy folk horror and slow-burn dread.
- Anyone who can sit with silence and let it work on them.
For more bleak, atmospheric horror picks, swing by AllFlesh—they keep a running list of films that haunt long after the credits roll.
If you want quips, jump scares, and buckets of blood, this isn’t that.
Final word
The Witch got under my skin. It’s careful, cold, and honest about fear. Faith, blame, family—none of it is simple, and the film doesn’t pretend it is. I turned it off, cleaned my mug, and checked my back door twice. Then I lay in bed and watched the ceiling. Listening. Waiting.
If you, like me, prefer not to brave bleak folk horror solo, a quick scroll through FuckLocal can match you with a fellow genre fan in your neighborhood so the next watch night comes with company, commentary, and maybe even popcorn.
Angelenos specifically tempted to trade the living-room couch for a midnight screening on Hollywood Boulevard can also skim the listings at Backpage Hollywood, where you’ll find real-time posts from local night owls looking to pair up for horror marathons, share rides, or grab a post-movie coffee without the awkward small talk.
For another harrowing look at faith colliding with fear, my night-light stayed on after revisiting The Exorcism of Emily Rose—consider it a companion piece in courtroom dread and demonic doubt.
My score: 4.5 out of 5. I’ll watch it again—just not alone.