The Conjuring universe has always thrived on fear rooted in the ordinary. A creaking hallway, a shadow in the corner, a doll’s unblinking stare—these simple images have become cultural nightmares. With Annabelle 4: Beneath the Floorboards, director James Wan pushes the franchise further into darkness, returning the doll to its most primal, bone-chilling form.
From its very first moments, the film establishes an oppressive mood. The farmhouse, presented as a supposed sanctuary, feels drenched in unease. Every wooden panel seems to hide secrets, every window frame another set of watching eyes. Rather than relying on quick shocks, the camera lingers, reminding us that true terror comes not from sudden jumps, but from the dread of waiting.
Lily James makes her debut in this universe, and it is a revelation. As the young woman forced to confront Annabelle’s evil, she embodies both fragility and ferocity. Her performance captures the slow unraveling of a mind trapped between grief and unexplainable horror. James brings an emotional gravitas rarely seen in supernatural horror, allowing the audience to feel every tremor of fear as if it were our own.
The central theme of this installment is hauntingly clear: the idea that what we bury never stays hidden. The title itself—Beneath the Floorboards—is both literal and symbolic. The farmhouse floor conceals more than dust and shadows; it hides the repressed sins, the buried memories, and the violent pasts that refuse to remain silent. Annabelle becomes more than a doll—she is a vessel of all that festers when truth is hidden away.
The scares in this chapter are masterfully constructed. There are fewer cheap jolts and more atmospheric terrors, crafted with precision. A 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥’s toy rolling in an empty hallway, muffled whispers beneath the boards, the sound of something scratching just beyond the walls—these moments carry the audience into a suffocating tension that lingers long after the screen fades to black.
One of the film’s strengths is its refusal to give the audience comfort. The priests are powerless, prayers fall into silence, and rituals collapse under the weight of Annabelle’s malevolence. There is no savior here, no guaranteed escape. The horror is relentless, and Wan seems determined to remind us that evil does not play by the rules of faith.
The farmhouse itself becomes a character, perhaps even the most frightening one. Its decaying beams and claustrophobic crawl spaces feel alive, as though the house itself conspires with the doll. Each room has a memory, each creak a warning. The setting roots the story in isolation, ensuring that escape feels not only impossible but unimaginable.
What makes this installment stand apart from previous entries is its exploration of grief as a doorway for possession. Lily James’s character carries emotional wounds, and Annabelle preys upon them with insidious precision. The doll becomes not only a haunting presence but a manipulator of the soul, feeding on sorrow until resistance shatters. It’s a commentary on how darkness finds entry where pain is left untreated.
Cinematographer Michael Burgess deserves particular credit for crafting visuals that crawl under the skin. The play of shadow and light creates imagery that lingers—Annabelle half-lit beneath a bed frame, or the faint outline of her porcelain face through a cracked board. These are images that burrow into memory and return long after leaving the theater.
By the time the final act arrives, the film abandons restraint and unleashes a storm of supernatural terror. Yet even amid the chaos, there is a sense of inevitability, as though the story had always been leading to this moment of surrender. Unlike other horror films where hope clings stub𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧ly to the last frame, Beneath the Floorboards dares to leave us unsettled, uncertain if survival was even possible to begin with.
In the end, Annabelle 4 is more than just another sequel—it is a terrifying meditation on memory, grief, and the things we pretend to bury. It reminds us that some horrors cannot be prayed away, silenced, or hidden beneath wood and nails. Once awakened, they rise, they claim, and they endure. For those who thought they had grown immune to the doll’s terror, this chapter proves Annabelle still has the power to own our nightmares.
