Haddonfield schedules safety; a shuttered convent schedules a midnight novena. The Halloween piano slips under a cracked choir as porch lights wink out in perfect rhythm. Candles gutter backward, crucifixes turn to face the wall, and a procession of empty habits crosses a cul‑de‑sac where trick‑or‑treaters freeze like statues. The camera breathes like a mask—white corridor, fluorescent hum, shoe squeak—silence—knife. Valak bends rooms into confessionals; Michael answers with footstep math and a blade that never hurries.

Set‑pieces strike hard: stained glass blooming black as a silhouette glides behind it; a school gym lit by votives while lockers bang in Latin time; an ICU blackout where heart monitors hammer the Conjuring chant; a corn maze that only burns in the vision; a rosary chain snapping, looping his wrist; a hallway of portraits turning their heads toward the knife. Title cards whisper: HE DOESN’T SPEAK. IT DEMANDS AN ANSWER.

Final sting: a bell tolls with no rope, the mask tilts in a chalice’s reflection, and Valak’s smile flowers in the eyehole before both step forward—together.