Every so often, a horror film comes along that doesn’t just disturb—it disarms. It doesn’t scream in your face; it smiles, takes your hand, and walks you into the abyss. House of Abraham is that kind of film. It doesn’t bludgeon you—it believes you’ll volunteer. It’s unnerving, cerebral, and meticulously crafted. If Get Out had a spiritual sibling in tone and control, this might be it. Directed with icy precision by Lisa Belcher and written by star Lukas Hassel, House of Abraham is a masterclass in atmospheric dread, exploring grief, consent, and the seductive power of surrender.
The story follows Dee (Natasha Henstridge), a woman shattered by loss, who arrives at the House of Abraham—a secluded retreat offering a highly ritualized form of assisted suicide. Guests must surrender their belongings and names, record a final confession, and declare by what means they will die. It’s all voluntary. It’s all “humane.” But Abraham, the house’s messianic overseer, insists on ritual. And where there is a ritual, there is control.
Henstridge delivers a raw, understated performance. There is no melodrama in her grief—just quiet devastation. But it is Lukas Hassel’s Abraham who owns this film. His performance is a revelation: suave, benevolent, terrifying. He speaks with the gentle cadence of a pastor, the certainty of a zealot, and the coiled danger of a predator.
It helps that Hassel also wrote the screenplay—a lean, elegant piece of psychological horror that trusts the audience to follow the undercurrents. There are no exposition dumps, no clumsy reveals. Instead, tension simmers beneath every line of dialogue, building a web so refined that you don’t notice it tightening until it’s already around your throat.
“…a secluded retreat offering a highly ritualized form of assisted suicide…”
Lisa Belcher directs like a surgeon. She isn’t interested in cheap scares. Her camera lingers, listens, and waits. Like Jordan Peele in Get Out, she weaponized civility, turning warmth into threat and formality into something chilling. Her restraint is relentless, and that’s what makes the fear hit harder.
Alex Walker’s cinematography is a silent accomplice in this dread. The house is shot like a place of worship—clean lines, empty halls, soft whites that feel increasingly sterile, even sinister. Every frame is deliberate, every shadow earned. There are echoes here of The Invitation, and yes, the quiet tension of Get Out, where terror is wrapped in manners and mind games.
Lin Shaye adds an extra dimension with her signature presence—wisdom laced with something unknowable. But House of Abraham is a two-hander. Dee and Abraham. Grief and guidance. One looking for peace, the other promising transcendence. Together, they dance toward something unspeakable.
This isn’t horror for gore-hounds. This is horror for thinkers. For anyone who’s felt lost and wanted someone to tell them what to do next. House of Abraham offers that comfort… and then shows the price. The best way to see this is to go in blind and let the movie simply engulf you. You shall not be disappointed.
"…This is horror for thinkers."
