Released in 2017, The House Next Door (also known as Aval and Gruham) is an acclaimed Indian supernatural horror film directed by Milind Rau and starring Siddharth. The film follows a neurosurgeon and his wife whose lives are upended by a malevolent entity, offering a technical, well-regarded take on the genre that incorporates themes of female infanticide. Read the review at The Times of India.
Movie Report: The House Next Door (2017)
"The House Next Door" is a 2017 American horror film directed by Brian A. Metcalf and produced by Brian A. Metcalf, Laura A. Miller, and Phillip J. Bartell. The movie stars Ryan Hansen, Katie Leclerc, and Phil LaMarr.
The story revolves around a young couple, Clay and Lisa, who move into a new home, only to discover that it was once the site of a horrific tragedy. As they try to settle into their new life, they realize that their house is haunted by malevolent spirits.
Plot Summary:
The movie follows Clay and Lisa, a couple who are excited to start their new life in a beautiful home. However, their joy is short-lived as they begin to experience strange occurrences. They soon discover that the house has a dark history and that a family was brutally murdered there. As the events escalate, Clay and Lisa must fight for their lives against the evil forces that are haunting their home.
Reception:
"The House Next Door" received mixed reviews from critics, with some praising its tense atmosphere and others criticizing its predictable plot. The movie holds a 4.1/10 rating on IMDB.
Availability:
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Language Options:
If you're looking to watch the movie in Hindi, I suggest checking the language options on legitimate streaming platforms or purchasing a dubbed version of the movie. However, be aware that not all platforms may offer a Hindi dubbed version.
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Just watched "The House Next Door" (2017) – a gripping thriller with solid performances. Watched it in Hindi. Anyone else seen it?
🏠 The House Next Door (2017) – A Shiver-Giver! 👻 If you’re looking for a horror film that actually delivers on the scares without relying on typical Bollywood comedy tropes, this is it! Released in 2017, this supernatural thriller was shot simultaneously in three languages: The House Next Door (Hindi), Aval (Tamil), and Gruham (Telugu). 🎬 Plot Summary
Set against the beautiful backdrop of the Himalayas, the story follows a young neurosurgeon, Dr. Krish (Siddharth), and his wife, Lakshmi (Andrea Jeremiah), whose peaceful life is turned upside down when a new family moves in next door. When the neighbor's rebellious teenage daughter, Jenny (Anisha Victor), begins acting strangely, Krish discovers a malevolent presence with deep roots in the past. 🌟 Why You Should Watch It The House Next Door 2017 www.7starhd.group Hind...
The House Next Door (2017) Review
"The House Next Door" is a 2017 American horror film directed by Dustin Youns and starring Margo Harshman, Ryan Paevey, and Jimmy Wibisono. The movie follows the story of a couple, Christina and John, who move into a new home, only to discover that it was once the scene of a horrific tragedy.
Plot Summary
The movie begins with Christina and John, a young couple, moving into a beautiful new home. As they start to settle in, they begin to experience strange and terrifying occurrences. They soon discover that the house has a dark history, having been the site of a gruesome murder-suicide several years ago. As the strange events escalate, Christina becomes increasingly unhinged, and John starts to suspect that their new home may be haunted.
Review
The film's strength lies in its ability to create a creepy atmosphere, which is enhanced by the isolated setting of the house. The cinematography is well done, capturing the eerie feeling of being alone in a vast, empty space. The performances of the lead actors are decent, with Margo Harshman delivering a convincing portrayal of a woman descending into madness.
However, the movie's predictability is a significant weakness. The plot twists are telegraphed from a mile away, and the ending is particularly underwhelming. The film's pacing is also a bit slow, with long stretches of exposition that do little to advance the plot.
Technical Aspects
Conclusion
Overall, "The House Next Door" (2017) is a mediocre horror film that relies on familiar tropes and a creepy atmosphere to scare its audience. While it has some effective moments, the predictability of the plot and the slow pacing hold it back from being a truly enjoyable watch.
Rating: 3/5 stars
Recommendation: If you're a fan of horror movies, you may find "The House Next Door" to be a passable watch, especially if you're in the mood for something that's more atmospheric than outright terrifying. However, if you're looking for a more original or suspenseful horror film, you may want to look elsewhere.
The House Next Door (2017), also titled in Tamil and in Telugu, is a critically acclaimed supernatural horror film directed by Milind Rau. Often compared to Hollywood classics like The Conjuring
for its technical quality, it is widely considered one of the best Indian horror films in recent years. Core Details Release Date : November 3, 2017.
: Stars Siddharth (who also co-wrote and produced) and Andrea Jeremiah as the lead couple.
: Shot in the breathtaking yet eerie locales of the Himalayan valley. Plot Overview The story follows (Siddharth), a neurosurgeon, and his wife
(Andrea Jeremiah). Their peaceful life is disrupted when a new family moves into the house next door. Soon, they witness the neighbors' daughter,
, exhibiting signs of possession and experiencing terrifying paranormal attacks.
Though initially skeptical, Krish is forced to resort to an exorcism to save the neighbors. The film eventually reveals a dark history involving the property and a vengeful spirit, while weaving in a social message regarding child infanticide. Critical Reception & Ratings
The film was a commercial and critical success, praised for its atmospheric tension and "shiver-giving" scares. Released in 2017, The House Next Door (also
The House Next Door (2017), directed by Milind Rau and starring Siddharth, is an acclaimed supernatural horror film praised for its atmospheric approach to the genre. The film focuses on a neurosurgeon's battle against a malevolent spirit affecting his neighbors, blending high-production value scares with themes of social injustice. For a detailed analysis of the film, visit Times of India.
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The House Next Door is a 2017 Indian Kannada-language psychological horror thriller directed by Sundar B. and produced by Rockline Venkatesh. Starring Puneeth Rajkumar (in one of his most intense roles), Anu Strewart, and Avantika Shetty, the film explores dark themes of paranoia, infidelity, and supernatural occurrences within a seemingly ordinary urban neighborhood.
Unlike typical jump-scare horror movies, The House Next Door builds tension through psychological dread. It was released on October 18, 2017, during the Dasara festival, and received positive reviews for its screenplay and lead performance.
The story follows Kashi (Puneeth Rajkumar), a successful architect living a peaceful life with his wife, Vasuki (Anu Strewart). Their world turns upside down when a mysterious couple, Satya and Lakshmi (played by Avantika Shetty and others), moves into the house next door.
Strange events begin to unfold: unexplained noises, eerie visions, and a growing sense that something is terribly wrong with the new neighbors. Kashi discovers that the house has a dark history involving occult practices, black magic, and tragic deaths. As he digs deeper, he realizes the threat is not just supernatural—it is deeply personal.
The film cleverly blends horror with a crime-thriller narrative, keeping audiences guessing until the final act.
When Meera first noticed the house next door, it was already half-swallowed by vines and silence. The paint had peeled in long, nervous strips; the one working window upstairs reflected the sky like an unblinking eye. Neighbors said it had been empty for years. The For Sale sign came down three owners ago and never came back up.
At night, the house made small, particular sounds: a settling groan that felt like a throat clearing; the faint scrape of something large being dragged across wood. Meera told herself it was pipes or wind. She told herself a lot of things to keep sleep from thinning out like tissue.
On a rain-soft Tuesday, Meera found a child's shoe on the narrow strip of grass between her yard and the derelict porch. It was tiny, pink, and clean as if someone had placed it there this morning. There was no name written inside. She took it up to the house, pressing against the splintered frame where the keyhole had been jimmied long ago. Rain blurred the numbers on the mailbox: 13-A.
Curiosity is a quiet, patient thing. The front door, when she eased it inward, did not resist. The air inside smelled of old lemon oil and dust—like a memory trying to recall laughter. The foyer tiles were patterned with a faded ribbon of blue. A photograph sat on a mantel, its glass smeared but intact: a family of three smiling into a camera, their faces pale with sun. The little girl wore shoes like the one Meera had found.
She walked the rooms in a slow, careful circuit. Rooms that might once have been peppermint and sun now held items placed with obsessive care—tea cups aligned by height, a row of chipped dolls on a shelf, a chessboard with pieces mid-game though the board had no dust where a hand might have rested. In the kitchen, the sink was full of water, risen to a level as if someone had paused at the last moment to walk away.
Upstairs, the wallpaper peeled in vertical curls like shedding skin. A child's drawings papered the door to the smallest bedroom: stick figures under a house with an enormous smiling sun. On each page, in the child’s round print, someone had written the same two words in a shaky hand: Stay With Me.
At the very back of the room, behind a moth-eaten curtain, Meera found a small cot and a radio. The radio's dial had been left between stations; when she brushed dust from it, a ghost of static hissed and then, impossibly, a thin lullaby threaded through the crackle. She stared until the sound stopped, because sound should not come from empty things.
That night, Meera dreamed the house walked. It crossed its threshold like a slow animal and pressed itself against the thin wall between her bedroom and whatever lay beyond. She woke at dawn to the scent of lemon oil and a child's giggle entangled with the plumbing.
She told no one. Words change houses; Meera knew that now. But she began, carefully, to leave small things: a bowl of milk on the back step, a book with crayon marks, a bouquet from her kitchen windowsill. Each morning one item would be moved closer to the porch, sometimes onto it, sometimes inside the open doorway. Once, the lace of a small sock appeared draped over her own fence.
On the seventh morning, a knock came at Meera’s back door—light, patterned, like fingertips testing the grain. She opened it to find the little girl from the photographs on the mantel, standing barefoot on the tile. Her hair was in a tangle; her eyes reflected an old, patient knowledge.
“I can’t find my mommy,” the girl said. Her voice sounded like a radio left between stations.
Meera wanted to ask how old she was, where the parents were, whether eating was something she remembered. Instead she sat and held the child's small, scraped hands. The girl fit into Meera’s palms the way small things fit into bigger hands: exactly. 7starhd
“Did you live next door?” Meera asked.
The girl’s mouth tilted. “It’s my house.”
“But it’s been empty.”
“No.” The girl blinked as though puzzled by Meera’s insistence. “It’s waiting.”
They called the police that afternoon. Officers came and left, finding no signs of forced entry, no trailed footprints through the sodden grass. The house’s records said it had belonged, once, to a couple who had sold it in haste ten years prior after a fire to the garage that no one could explain. The new owners had packed and left overnight. The town’s real estate filings listed the property as vacant—forever paused in a legal limbo.
When detectives entered with Meera’s permission, they reported the house as empty but for the things Meera had left and the child’s cot. A neighbor swore they’d seen curtains drawn at night where none should hang. An old woman at the corner store crossed herself and said some houses keep their memories the way others keep clocks—wound until they refuse to stop.
The girl—no name, nobody knew how to ask for one—refused to stay with any official. She would not eat in restaurants, and she would not register. She always returned to the house at dusk, her small silhouette vanishing into the open doorway. Meera watched from across the street, hands jammed into her coat pockets, bargaining with the kind of fear that smells like lemon oil.
Winter slid in thin and white. The house’s lights would sometimes blink on late at night, single bulbs lighting the upstairs window. On certain mornings, when the snow lay heavy and the world hushed to its shallow breath, the tracks outside the doorway in the yard were not human at all—small circles, as though fingers had walked and left prints.
Meera began to speak to the house the way one speaks to the sea: carefully, offering. She would say good morning to the blue ribboned foyer and leave the radio tuned between stations. The girl listened to Meera as if they shared an arrangement neither had made aloud.
Then, one evening, the girl did not come back.
She did not appear on the lawn. The window stayed dark. Meera pressed her ear to the thin wall between her house and the house next door and heard only the soft, eventual settling. Days stretched like unused thread. The void in the small cot looked dangerous because it was empty and because an absence can be more loudly lived in than any crowded room.
On the tenth night after the girl vanished, Meera found a note tucked under the doorstep of her own house. The letters were childish, uneven, written with a crayon that had smeared a little at the last stroke: Thank you for staying.
She laid the paper on the mantel and burned it in a shallow dish in the kitchen sink until only curled ash drifted into the air. The smell was not lemon oil but something older—smoke that tasted of singed cotton and old photographs.
After that, the house stopped making noise. The lights did not blink. In the window upstairs, for the first time in months, curtains remained open in the morning sun as if they had been expecting the light. The vines retreated a little from the porch. The mailbox numbers were crisp and plain again.
People in the neighborhood resumed their lives. Children played on the sidewalk as if nothing had ever happened. The house became, once again, part of the background: an oddity with peeling paint.
Meera would sometimes walk past and press a fingertip to the cool glass of the stained window. Sometimes she thought she saw a small shape move in the corner of the upstairs room, a quick shadow like a bird’s tail. She would smile and keep walking, because the world insists on its rituals: groceries, bills, the small tidy business of living.
At night, when rain came and the gutters sang, Meera would sometimes hear a lullaby on the edge of her sleep. It came like a memory being replayed—not quite accurate, but close enough to comfort. She kept a little shoe by her door for a long time. Once, she found it on the porch of the house next door, dry and clean again, as if it had never known rain.
People asked Meera why she had kept visiting that empty house. She would shrug and say nothing, because some questions are made of hinge-pins and open doors. When pressed, she would only say, “It needed someone to answer it back.”
And on quiet mornings, when the lane was still and the sky the color of old paper, she could almost hear a child humming between the boards—an echo of staying, a small insistence on being remembered.
The house waited. So did she.
Despite a modest budget, The House Next Door stood out for:
Rotten Tomatoes (Audience Score): ~78%
IMDb Rating: 7.1/10 (based on 2,800+ votes)