The Night (2020) is a warping and impressive directorial debut from Kourosh Ahari, director of such shorts as In Passing (2017) and Malaise (2014). While his time in the industry has been short, this promising offering displays a competence and understanding of what makes a truly chilling story, thankfully with enough talent to back up every inch of it.
An Iranian couple living in the US are lost on their way home from a night of drinks at a friend’s house. After arguing by the roadside over how to proceed, they eventually come across the majestic yet eerie Hotel Normandie, and decide to stay the night. What follows are enough spectral shenanigans and psychological trickery to satisfy Stephen King; And although it does tread similar ground to the fantastic 1408 (2007), The Night manages to hit hard in its own stylish and weighty manner.
Invoking a similar claustrophobic dread to films such as The Borderlands (2013) and perhaps to a lesser extent Grave Encounters (2011); The Night presents uswith the feeling that the characters we follow are being tortured to the full extent of their psychological threshold. To the disappointment of some, the filmfeels perhaps a little too scare-restrained to cross the border from unnerving to fully frightening. What area of the horror spectrum it does fall under, however, it owns to the fullest degree.
The domestic troubles of lead couple Babak (Shahab Hosseini)andNeda (Niousha Noor)are apparent from the opening scenes, and it’s these demons and their collective secrets they must face if they are to survive their night at Hotel Normandie. Though slow in pace, the film is pulled along with ease by Hosseini and Noor’s compelling and involving performances. Additional characters show their faces now and then to instill some terror, shoving along a plot which keeps the brain whirring up until its revelatory, mind-bending third act.
And the ending…oh, that ending.
For a story of personal demons and their manifestations, the inference of real threat is a potent one. Dread builds through long -often hypnotic- camera takes, the slightest facial twitch indicating more than a monologue could ever achieve. The mesmerising effect of this style admittedly left me forgetting my place on more than one occasion, which is brilliantly appropriate. This, along with the heaps of mystery still seemingly looming beneath the surface even as the credits roll, absolutely warrants repeated viewings. The few jumpscares that were included are delivered with impeccable timing and accented with such dreadful musical spikes that I rejoiced at their inclusion, and I haven’t enjoyed a jumpscare since The Ring (2002).
The Night takes its time and strikes when it needs to with uncanny precision. Starting slow (almost deceptively dull), this build-up should be taken as such, and immersion in the world of these brilliantly acted characters is a top priority. This exquisitely-balanced drama/horror blend is a pleasant surprise from Ahari and hopefully a promising look at a bright future in cinema. I felt lost within the Hotel Normandie, which I would say is the highest possible praise for a film with The Night’s intent.
Joe first knew he wanted to write in year six after plaguing his teacher’s dreams with a harrowing story of World War prisoners and an insidious ‘book of the dead’. Clearly infatuated with horror, and wearing his influences on his sleeve, he dabbled in some smaller pieces before starting work on his condensed sci-fi epic, System Reset in 2013.Once this was published he began work on many smaller horror stories and poems in bid to harness and connect with his own fears and passions and build on his craft. Joe is obsessed with atmosphere and aesthetic, big concepts and even bigger senses of scale, feeding on cosmic horror of the deep sea and vastness of space and the emotions these can invoke. His main fixes within the dark arts include horror films, extreme metal music and the bleakest of poetry and science fiction literature. He holds a deep respect for plot, creative flow and the context of art, and hopes to forge deeper connections between them around filmmakers dabbling in the dark and macabre.
Supernatural encounters, occultism, and dark magic become sketches in the diary of a strange entity. Known only as “The Illustrator”, some believe him to be an observer, others a harbinger of death and suffering. What is known is that wherever The Illustrator seemed to go, bizarre and oftentimes deadly occurrences followed close behind.
Tell me about yourself? I’m Felipe Kroll, I’m a Brazilian artist. I don’t know why but dark and emotional art always caught my attention, I remember as a kid I spent hours looking Caravaggio paintings in my school book, I was fascinated with his art, still am to this day. I was always making excuses for not going to parties just to stay home drawing, writing, reading Spawn comics or something from Stephen King… But despite all the love for painting, books, and comics it took me some time to start actually working in this field. The turning point for me happened one day when I was walking in a bookstore and I saw a novel called Criminal Macabre, by Steve Niles and Ben Templesmith, I knew at that moment that was exactly what I want to do in my life. Some years later, after much study, the art I made for friends, indie books, magazines, and rock bands, I started doing a project with a friend called Fossa de Almas, I think the translation would go something like “Pit of souls”, we’ve done just the prologue of this comic, it didn’t look so good in terms of art, there are some panels I did there that I look at today and feel embarrassed, but that’s ok, it’s what I could do at the moment. The comic didn’t go much further but it was an opening for me, after that, I got called to make 6 pages of a graphic novel called Egum with some big artists, one thing lead to another and after this point, I’ve started to work more “professionally” in this field. The Nightmare Sketchbook is the first project that I’ve idealized and brought to reality, I’m very happy with the result of the novel, it certainly came out better than what I expected. I can’t thank enough everyone who got involved, writer Vincent V. Cava who believed in my initial idea and became a co-creator of the project, writing “The Summoning” script, and Linearts studios and Moacir Muniz that teamed up with me on the artwork.
What inspired the novel and the art? What inspired me to start this project was definitely the creepypastas. It was a time I spent about 8 hours a day with my headphones hearing the stories on youtube, I wanted to do a story in that style, short stories, sort with a real background. Creepypastas was also why I got to know Vincent V. Cava’s work, who is now the writer and co-creator of the novel. The artwork style I went for came from my early influences, it follows grunge, visceral and even impressionistic aesthetic. I wanted the comic to have loose lines, full of textures and personality. Besides being a cool style for the horror genre, it also fits perfectly with the book’s premise of being a sketchbook.
What were some of the challenges in creating this novel? Time was the worst factor that worked against us, against me especially, it just took me an eternity to have the novel finished. I probably did the entire artwork for the comic 3 times before finding the style I wanted.
Tritone’s love of horror and mystery began at a young age. Growing up in the 80’s he got to see some of the greatest horror movies play out in the best of venues, the drive-in theater. That’s when his obsession with the genre really began—but it wasn’t just the movies, it was the games, the books, the comics, and the lore behind it all that really ignited his obsession. Tritone is a published author and continues to write and write about horror whenever possible.
Mysterious low-flying spacecraft, doorways that appear in midair, disembodied voices, crop circles, mutilated cattle…the stuff of science fiction? Or just another day at Skinwalker Ranch? Though thousands of people have reported seeing UFOs over the decades, this particular 512 acres of property in the Uintah Basin region of northeastern Utah seems to be a hotbed for extraterrestrial activity.
Terry and Gwen Sherman bought the now-infamous ranch back in 1994, presumably unaware of what they were getting themselves into, and Skinwalker Ranch has since become one of the most heavily researched, and controversial, paranormal spots in the world.
The First Sightings
“For a long time we wondered what we were seeing, if it was something to do with a top-secret project. I don’t know really what to think about it.”
Terry Sherman
The family’s initial reports of bizarre and unexplained phenomena came from their first two years living there, where they and their two children witnessed a variety of unnerving events. Between 1994-1996 they saw three different types of UFOs, discovered eight foot by three foot rings of flattened crops, and lost seven cows (four disappeared, one apparently lifted straight from the snow in which it stood, and three were mutilated). The mutilations are particularly strange as the wounds were surgically precise and bloodless. The Shermans also report having seen strange animals, including a wolf three times larger than it should have been and impervious to bullets.
Real Estate Agents Love UFOs
The Shermans shared their paranormal findings with the Deseret News in June of 1996, and three months later Las Vegas real estate magnate and UFO enthusiast Robert Bigelow bought the property. Bigelow, also the founder of an organization known as National Institute for Discovery Science (NIDSci), set up 24/7 surveillance of the ranch with his team of scientists, researchers, and guards. Over the decades he reported having numerous experiences and sightings, but according to skeptics he was never able to provide hard proof. At one point the United States Defense Department even became involved, conducting a secret investigation under the name Advanced Aviation Threat Identification Program (AATIP).
Bigelow eventually sold the property in 2016 to Adamantium Holdings, which was later revealed to be a shell company of real estate tycoon Brandon Frugal, who wanted his identity to remain anonymous. Frugal is the one who acquired the trademark “Skinwalker Ranch”. The name Skinwalker refers to a malevolent being in Native American folklore. Many indigenous tribes believe these “skinwalkers” are witches who can transform themselves into various animals. Indeed there is a large population of Ute living in and around the Uintah Basin and they believe the ranch has been a haunt for skinwalkers for at least fifteen generations.
Final Thoughts
So have all the reports over the decades at Skinwalker Ranch been hoaxes? Are they less extraordinary phenomena with perfectly reasonable explanations? Or, as many claim, is there something otherworldly going on? It’s no surprise that in an area known to the extraterrestrial research community as “UFO Alley”, the Uintah Basin would draw worldwide attention. But there is a particular allure to Skinwalker Ranch, the crowned king of alien activity. It was even Google’s most searched cultural landmark in the U.S. in 2022. Thanks to media attention, billionaires, skeptics, and numerous books and shows, such as the History Channel’s currently running The Secret of Skinwalker Ranch, it’s clear that there is something about the ranch worth exploring.
Ben’s love for horror began at a young age when he devoured books like the Goosebumps series and the various scary stories of Alvin Schwartz. Growing up he spent an unholy amount of time binge watching horror films and staying up till the early hours of the morning playing games like Resident Evil and Silent Hill. Since then his love for the genre has only increased, expanding to include all manner of subgenres and mediums. He firmly believes in the power of horror to create an imaginative space for exploring our connection to each other and the universe, but he also appreciates the pure entertainment of B movies and splatterpunk fiction.
Nowadays you can find Ben hustling his skills as a freelance writer and editor. When he’s not building his portfolio or spending time with his wife and two kids, he’s immersing himself in his reading and writing. Though he loves horror in all forms, he has a particular penchant for indie authors and publishers. He is a proud supporter of the horror community and spends much of his free time reviewing and promoting the books/comics you need to be reading right now!
Sometimes, it’s not just the living who need help moving on from the past…but the dead.
I set the recorder down on the kitchen table. “Do you mind if I record our session together?”
“No,” Sara said, then shifted in her seat.
Sara Cane was a wife and mother of five. She had long blonde hair and deep brown eyes, which in those moments, were full of confusion.
“I don’t understand why he keeps coming to me,” she said, then eased a finger to her lips.
“What do you mean? How does he come to you?” I placed my arms on the table and leaned closer.
“In my dreams. He visits me.”
“How long has this been going on?”
Sara’s eyes glazed over in remembrance. “Not long after he died.”
I nodded. “I see. How long ago did your father die?”
“Three years ago.” She glanced back at me. “I kept getting the impression he didn’t want to face me.”
“Why?” I reached for a bottle of whiskey I had set on my table. I cracked it open and poured some in my glass. “Want some?”
“Sure,” Sara said and eased the glass I had given her forward.
I poured her a shot.
She brought the whiskey to her mouth and sipped. “My father. His name was Michael. He did a lot of bad things he was ashamed of. He left and stopped all contact with me when I was fourteen.”
“How old are you now?” I took a sip.
“Thirty-five.”
“So your dad died when you were thirty-two?”
She nodded.
“And the dreams started not long after?”
She nodded again.
“So this has been going on for three years.”
“Yes.”
I leaned back in my chair. “So, why did you come here today?”
“Because word has gotten out about you,” Sara said then took another sip of whiskey.
“Word about what?” I asked. “I don’t advertise anything.”
Sara huffed and smiled. “You don’t have to. Your work and reputation speak for itself. The people you help. It’s real.” She stared down at the table for a moment, then gazed into my eyes. “You aren’t a fake. You aren’t a showboat. In fact, you hate that people even know you have these abilities from God. You wish you could just stay hidden and disappear and be left alone.”
I downed my drink and poured another. “Yeah, so. Does that bother you?”
“No,” Sara shook her head and smirked. “It is the very reason why I trust you. You aren’t a phony, Mr. Kincaid.”
I meditated on her words then pushed back. “How do you know? And how do I know you aren’t just yanking my chain to try and get some sort of attention?”
Sara eyed me up and down. “Because, right now? I can feel you in my head. And you know I am telling the truth.”
I widened my eyes, nodded, then hammered down my drink. The lady was right. I was inside her head searching her to see if she was telling the truth.
“All right, fine. You want to do this? I need something. Something tangible. Something with you and your dad.” I poured another shot.
“I know,” she said. “I brought this.” She dug in her purse and pulled out an old Polaroid. “This is me and my dad. Taken in 1986 or ‘87.”
I reached across the table and grabbed it. My fingers touched the picture and I was hit with a flood of energy.
Sara saw my body jolt. “What is it?”
“Give me a minute.” I stared at the picture.
Sara’s father held her in his arms. He had brownish-blonde hair and a beard. Sara’s blonde hair was shaped away from her face. They both look terrified in the picture.
“Your father was a coward wasn’t he?” I asked.
Sara’s mouth gaped. “How did you know? Yes, very much so.”
“I can see it all over him.”
Sara gazed deep into my eyes. “I need you to help him move on. He is afraid. He keeps telling me in my dreams that ‘they’ won’t let him go.”
“Who are ‘they’?” I asked then took another sip of whiskey.
“I don’t know?” Sara shrugged. “He would never say.”
I sat silent for a few moments, nodding my head with slow movements. Then I said, “I am going to try something.” I placed the photograph down on the table. “I just need you to sit quietly and only answer me when I ask you a direct question. Got it?”
“Yes,” Sara affirmed.
I shifted my eyes from Sara to the photograph and then reached with my mind. The image came at once.
“I see your father,” I said. “He is sitting at a brown kitchen table. One of those square ones that can fold out on the edges. He is dressed in a dark brown flannel shirt and a blue vest. One of those thick nylon winter vest. His face is in his hands and he is weeping. I sense deep regret.” I paused for a moment. “I also see a newspaper clipping on the table.” I glanced up at Sara. “Does any of this sound familiar?”
Tears flowed from her eyes. “How do know? How did you know?”
I reached out and gave her hand a comforting touch. “Talk to me. Tell me what this means.”
“My dad accidentally killed someone on the job.” She breathed in deep then exhaled. “He was beside the heavy equipment. He was supposed to signal to the guy in the equipment when to keep moving the dirt. When he would, the other crew members would jump in the trench and dig. Well, one of the guys either got confused or distracted. I’m not sure which but he mistook my dad’s signal. He jumped in as my dad gave the all clear to the operator. When my dad saw the guy jump in he screamed at the operator to stop. The operator couldn’t hear my dad’s screams and you can’t just jump in because then you would get smashed. So he stood back and watched the guy literally get crushed to death.”
I finished off my whiskey. “And it was in the newspapers?”
Sara nodded.
“And he regretted this all his life?” I asked.
“The scene you described.” She wiped a tear. “Was what I remember seeing as a child. My father was sitting at the table crying with his hands in his face and the newspaper clipping in front of him.”
I sat again in silence. Longer this time. “Sara, give me another minute. I am going to try something else.”
“All right,” she sniffled.
I stared at the picture longer and harder. The energy hit me again and I saw Michael at his kitchen table.
“Sara, listen to me. I am there in the kitchen with your dad.”
Sara blinked. “What?”
“He is afraid of me and trying to run from me. I am assuring him it’s okay. That I am here to help him.”
Sara’s voice grew shaky. “Don’t let him run away!”
I didn’t utter a word. Sara grew nervous as the seconds ticked on. “Mr. Kincaid, is he still there? Did he leave?”
I held up my hand for her to be quiet. “He is here. He is talking to me. He wants to tell you something.”
Sara fidgeted with her wedding ring. “What?”
“The reason he has been watching you is because he loves seeing you happy. He regrets how he treated you growing up. He ignored you and favored your brother and he is sorry.”
Sara began to cry. “How did you know I had a brother? How did you know my dad favored him and ignored me?”
“Because he is telling me that now, Sara.” I kept gazing at the photograph.
“Oh my God,” Sara clasped a hand over her mouth.
“He is sticking around because he likes seeing you happy. Yet it is also causing deep regret. He wanted to be the one to make you happy, but he didn’t. But the man you are married to now. You love him deep and he loves you, correct?”
“Yes, oh God, yes.” Sara’s tears flowed.
“But your father didn’t like your first husband. He just told me that. He said he is glad you aren’t with him anymore. He was too much like him.”
Sara sobbed harder. “Yes! Yes! How do you–”
I held up my hand again. “Shhhh. I’m talking to him. Trying to get him to move on.”
Sara drummed on her lips with her pointer finger.
“He said he is scared to go, Sara. I told him for once don’t be a coward. Make your daughter proud. Go face what lies beyond.” I reached for Sara’s hand.
Sara reciprocated and grabbed mine.
“He is hugging me, Sara. Weeping in my arms. He said he knows he needs to go. He said he is happy for you. He is happy you found your husband. He loves the man you are with very much. He said he has been watching and that your husband is good for you and what you have always deserved.” I squeezed her hand.
Sara sniffed and wept more.
“I told him to come on and go with John. Sara, who is John? The name came to me and I felt like I needed to tell him that.”
Sara let out choppy sighs. “Oh my God. John is his dad. My grandfather. My dad got him to stop drinking. How do you know this Mr. Kincaid? How?”
I ignored her question. “He wants to talk to you, Sara. He said he does love you and he wants you to forgive him.”
Sara cupped her hand over her mouth and tried to steady herself. “Daddy! I do forgive you! I love you and I am happy. Please don’t torment yourself. I know you are sorry for what you did. Please, move on.”
I let go of Sara’s hand. “A door has appeared. He is walking towards it. He is opening it. Sara, he is smiling. His face is bright.” I waited to see what would happen next. “Sara, he walked through the door. He’s gone.” I blinked and moved my eyes from the photo to Sara. “He has moved on.”
Sara laid her head on the table between her arms and wept solemn tears. “I can feel it. The weight is gone. He is gone. It’s like a cramp that has given way and let go.”
I reached and patted her hand. “I know. I know.”
Sara lifted her head and stared at he with glassy eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Kincaid.” Sara stood up from the table, shouldered her purse, and picked up the photograph. “Daddy,” she said and pressed it against her chest.
Sara walked toward the door. Her steps were lighter and her smile was brighter. She paused, then turned to face me. “Mr. Kincaid? What do you think the ‘they’ were?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Sara. We might never know. There is so much I don’t understand. Kinda of like the more I see and learn the less it all makes sense.”
“Yeah,” She said, meditating on my words. “Yeah.” She opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight.
“Indeed,” I whispered and pushed stop on my recorder. “Sometimes, it’s not just the living who need help moving on from the past… but the dead.”
I had just settled down for the night with a good book and a bottle of whiskey. The paperback I was reading was from 1987–C. Dean Anderson’s Torture Tomb. The cover had appealed to me so I snatched it up at a thrift store. I nestled into my recliner, flipped it open to the beginning, and started reading.
Then there was a knock on my door.
“Unbelievable. Every freaking time.” I grabbed my phone off the stand next to me. “Ten thirty at night?” I always kept my Glock 19 with me so I swiped it off the stand and pulled on the slide, easing a bullet into the chamber.
I rolled out of my chair and crept to the door.
There was a knock again.
I turned the deadbolt then got in a shooting stance. “Come in,” I said. “It’s open.”
The knob turned and I moved my finger to the trigger.
The door opened and I recognized the face. I wanted to pull the trigger. Not out of fear or a threat, but out of anger.
“Mr. Kincaid,” the man said. “You have to stop. I’m begging you. I can’t take it anymore.”
The man was Brandon. He looked like crap. His complexion was pale and he had a bruise on his cheek. He wore a gray, stained sweat suit and was clutching at his stomach.
“You got about two seconds to turn around before I either put a bullet in your knee cap or smash your teeth out with the butt of my gun. I haven’t decided which yet.”
Brandon’s eyes bulged then grew wet with tears. His lips trembled and he stammered. “Ppppplease. Mr. Kincaid. You have to stop. I can’t–” He hung his head and sobbed.
I lowered my gun. “Stop? Stop?” I let out a mocking laugh. “You think I am going to stop? After you pulled a gun on your own wife? My little sister? Whom I love with all my heart? And after you threatened to throw your own kid out a window? Oh no, Brandon. I won’t ever stop till I cripple you.”
Brandon sobbed harder.
“You know what your problem is Brandon,” I asked.
He responded with more tears.
“You are a coward. You’re an abusive bully who cries and throws temper tantrums because he doesn’t get his way. And you won’t ever quit.”
Brandon lifted his head and gazed into my eyes. He knew I was right.
“I see everything you do. I know when you try to hurt her or threaten her. I saw what you tried to do today and I shut it down didn’t I? That box that flew across the room and knocked you out, leaving that bruise on your face? That was me.” I raised my gun again.
“I know,” he mumbled.
“Now, Brandon. You want me to stop? Then you leave. You get as far away from them as possible. You do that and I will stop. But if you stay? And if you ever, and I mean ever, so much as raise your voice at her or touch your kids in a threatening way, I will finish what I started today.”
Brandon looked down at the ground and gave a slow, almost lifeless nod.
“Now, get out of here. I was trying to read a book.” I slammed the door in his face then went and sat back down in my chair. I set my gun back on the nightstand and picked up my voice recorder. I turned it on and hit ‘record’.
“Telekinesis,” I said. “It is a real and powerful phenomena. It can be dangerous, but I promise I will only use it to protect the ones I love.”
I hit stop and set the recorder down. I uncorked the whiskey and took a swing straight from the bottle. I leaned up and placed it at the foot of my recliner. I picked up my paperback and read for the rest of the night.
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