Veronica

When Verónica landed on Netflix back in 2017, it triggered one of those rare, viral social media panics that streaming platforms dream about. People were claiming it was the "scariest movie ever made," with viewers supposedly turning it off halfway through because they were too traumatized to continue. Now, I’ve been around the horror block more than a few times, and usually, that kind of hype is just a clever marketing department working overtime. But when I finally sat down to watch it—on a Tuesday afternoon while my neighbor was aggressively leaf-blowing outside, a contrast that only made the onscreen shadows feel more invasive—I realized that director Paco Plaza wasn't just leaning on jump scares. He was crafting something much more grounded and, consequently, much more upsetting.

A Solar Eclipse and a Plastic Board

The setup feels familiar, but the execution is where the magic (or the curse) happens. We’re in 1991 Madrid, a city captured in dusty ambers and oppressive shadows by cinematographer Pablo Rosso. While the rest of her school is upstairs witnessing a rare solar eclipse, our protagonist, Verónica (Sandra Escacena), and two friends sneak into the basement to conduct a séance. They want to reach out to deceased relatives, but as any seasoned horror fan knows, the Ouija board is basically the 'bad idea' starter kit for teenagers who haven't seen enough movies.

Sandra Escacena, in her debut role, is an absolute revelation. She doesn't play Verónica as a typical horror victim; she’s a girl who is already exhausted by the "real world" before the ghosts even show up. Because her mother (Ana Torrent) is constantly working at a local bar to keep the family afloat, Verónica is the de facto parent to three younger siblings. The scenes of her bathing them, feeding them, and navigating the chaotic energy of a cramped apartment are just as tense as the supernatural elements. It’s a brilliant move by Paco Plaza, who previously co-directed the frantic [REC]. Here, he swaps the found-footage chaos for a slow-burn dread that feels tethered to the weight of adolescent responsibility.

The Weight of Being a Teen Mom

What makes the film work is how it uses the supernatural to amplify the very real terrors of growing up too fast. As the entity begins to manifest in their apartment—manifesting as distorted shadows or chilling whispers—it feels like an extension of Verónica’s own crumbling mental state. She is a girl who just wants to listen to her favorite rock records (shoutout to the band Héroes del Silencio on the soundtrack) but instead has to protect her siblings from a darkness she accidentally invited in.

The creature design is kept mostly in the periphery, which is a choice I always appreciate. Paco Plaza and co-writer Fernando Navarro understand that our imagination does half the work. There’s a blind nun at the school, nicknamed "Sister Muerte" and played with unsettling intensity by Consuelo Trujillo, who serves as the "expert" on the darkness. While the "spooky nun" trope is well-worn in this era of The Conjuring universe, Trujillo brings a weary, gravitas-filled energy to the role that makes it feel fresh. And for the film history buffs, seeing Ana Torrent—the iconic child star from the 1973 masterpiece The Spirit of the Beehive—playing the mother adds a layer of intergenerational Spanish cinema DNA that I found deeply satisfying.

When the Police Get Involved

One of the most effective hooks of Verónica is the "based on a true story" label, referencing the Vallecas case of 1991. It remains the only time in Spanish history that a police officer filed a report claiming to have witnessed paranormal activity. The film uses this to ground the final act in a way that feels uncomfortably real. When the credits roll and you see the actual police photographs of the apartment, it hits differently than your standard "Hollywood haunt."

In this current era of "elevated horror" and streaming saturation, it’s easy for international titles to get lost in the scroll. However, Veronica is essentially the world’s most effective PSA for why teenagers should just play Scrabble instead. It manages to be a touching coming-of-age story and a terrifying haunting flick simultaneously. It doesn't rely on the "technology is evil" tropes we see in modern hits like Host or Unfriended; instead, it looks back at the early 90s and finds terror in the transition from childhood to adulthood, punctuated by the mechanical clicking of a slide projector and the hiss of a dial-up world.

The film is a standout of the 2010s horror boom, proving that you don't need a massive budget or a shared universe to leave an audience sleeping with the lights on. It’s a masterclass in using sound design—the score by Chucky Namanera is fantastic—to build a sense of impending doom that feels earned rather than forced. If you missed the initial hype train, it's time to catch up. Just maybe wait for a day when your neighbors aren't making too much noise so you can hear every single creak in the floorboards.