In the Welsh Valleys and Yorkshire fields, something stirs. Two couples, two hauntings; one whispered through fairy rings, the other screamed through roots and ritual. Rabbit Trap offers tenderness in the face of loss; Starve Acre finds horror in what the land remembers.

Our Halloween special, a double helping of ritual, grief, and mycelial menace, pairs Bryn Chainey’s dreamlike Rabbit Trap with Daniel Kokotajlo’s devastating Starve Acre.

Different tones, same soil. One heals, the other devours.

A sound engineer (Dev Patel) and his composer wife (Rose McEwen) retreat to the Welsh Valleys to rediscover inspiration. Instead, they find a mysterious child in the woods, and the faint pull of the fairy realm.

Blurring the line between healing and haunting, Rabbit Trap weaves changeling myth, fairy-ring folklore, and electronic soundscapes into a story of grief transfigured.

Its intimacy is hypnotic: a film where sound carries half the story, and the unseen hums just beneath the soil.

“It’s not a film about fear. It’s about finally meaning it.” — Andy Davidson

Score: 28/30

Verdict: A beautiful, immersive folk horror, poetic, unsettling, and quietly redemptive.

Matt Smith and Morfydd Clark play a grieving couple drawn into an ancient ritual tied to the land beneath their Yorkshire home.

Here, loss becomes obsession and the soil answers back with cruelty. Starve Acre takes the folklore of sacrifice and drags it into raw, contemporary grief — a story of necromancy, love, and the terrible cost of devotion.

Where Rabbit Trap whispers, this one roars. Wide landscapes, heavy silences, and the suffocating inevitability of myth.

“Where Rabbit Trap gives your life back, Starve Acre asks what you’ll give up to get it.” — David Hall

Score: 24/30

Verdict: Traditional and brutal. The Wicker Man’s darker cousin, steeped in earth and loss.

• Ritual & Sacrifice: In one story, ritual heals; in the other, it devours.
• Loss & Renewal: Rabbit Trap mourns the child never born; Starve Acre the one buried too soon.
• Sound & Silence: The former is composed in close-mic whispers; the latter in wind and soil.
• Fungi & Folklore: Mycelium as metaphor and menace. Rot, rebirth, and everything between.
• The Land as Consciousness: Both films remind us the ground remembers, even when we try to forget.

In Rabbit Trap, sound is not background, it’s the bloodstream. Recording equipment, field tapes, and the hiss of the landscape shape every emotional turn.

In Starve Acre, the sound is absence, the breath before a scream, the creak of a root giving way.

Together they form a conversation between microphones and ghosts.

Two sides of the same ritual. Rabbit Trap offers poetic rebirth; Starve Acre drags you through the mud and makes you pay for it.

Together they form a perfect Halloween pairing, proof that British folk horror is alive, growing, and quietly colonising your subconscious.

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A starving village, a lovesick girl, and a devil with a taste for mischief.

This week on Folk ’n’ Hell enters the snow-caked world of November (2017), Rainer Sarnet’s monochrome masterpiece of Estonian folklore and unrequited love. Adapted from Andrus Kivirähk’s novel, it is part fairy tale, part fever dream, and, depending on your tolerance for mud and magic, possibly the most beautiful film ever made about utter poverty.

The trio sink their boots into the film’s strange logic and haunting tone. In this medieval village, peasants barter their souls to the devil to build Kratts, creatures cobbled together from tools and bones that do their bidding. The dead dine with the living on All Souls’ Night, wolves roam the woods, and love becomes the cruellest magic of all. At its heart lies Lena, who adores Hans, who in turn is besotted with the Baron’s unnamed daughter. The result is a love triangle soaked in soot and longing, filmed in stark black and white that turns every frame into a living etching.

The hosts revel in the film’s rich mix of absurdity and allegory: peasants eating bark and soap, nobles decaying in empty grandeur, and the devil himself arriving like an Estonian Brian Blessed. Beneath the filth and humour lies a sharp reflection on faith, class, and survival. For all its surreal touches, talking snowmen, flying cows, and trousers worn on heads to ward off plague, November feels deeply human. Its horror is not in monsters or blood but in the endless grind of existence and the futility of desire.

Is it folk horror? The gang debate the question with uncharacteristic earnestness. While it may lack jump scares or creeping dread, November is steeped in folklore, environmental menace, and spiritual decay. It earns a unanimous 9 out of 10, the highest rating in Folk ’n’ Hell history, and a heartfelt recommendation even for those who usually avoid horror altogether. Shot through with humour, sorrow, and snowy beauty, November proves that folk horror can be tender, tragic, and strangely uplifting all at once.

Watch the film, listen to the chatter, and decide for yourself whether this tale of love, magic, and mud deserves its place among the genre’s finest.

🎬 Film: November (2017)

🎥 Director: Rainer Sarnet

📚 Based on: Rehepapp ehk November by Andrus Kivirähk

🔗 Wikipedia | IMDb | Rotten Tomatoes

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A mother and daughter rock band film themselves into witchcraft legend. Hellbender (2021) is the Adams family’s lockdown-born tale of spells, riffs, and rebellion, brewed in the forests of upstate New York. FolknHell dives into its homemade horror, punk-fuelled ambition, and questionable folk credentials, asking what really happens when cabin fever meets black magic.

Shot at the family home during the pandemic, Hellbender is a curious mix of family therapy, DIY filmmaking, and teenage witch fantasy. Mum Toby Poser, dad John Adams, and daughters Zelda and Lulu share writing, directing, editing, and acting duties, creating a home-spun brew of coming-of-age angst and occult awakening. The result is part music video, part family art project, and part fanged parable about isolation, appetite, and inherited power.

The story follows Izzy, a teenage girl kept away from civilisation by her mother, who insists she is ill. In reality, both are witches, members of a near-extinct line called Hellbenders who feed on fear to grow stronger. When Izzy meets a local girl and tastes her first worm, the magic takes hold, triggering a gory self-discovery that sets her against her protective, equally dangerous mother. What begins as a bond between two outsiders becomes a slow collision of maternal control and adolescent rebellion, shot through with buzzing guitars and pine-forest mysticism.

As always, the trio pull the film apart to test whether it truly belongs in the folk horror coven. Andy admires the ambition and momentum despite rough edges. Dave Houghton recognises the charm but points out the uneven tone that comes from four directors working on alternate days. David Hall argues that while witchcraft lies at the genre’s heart, Hellbender lacks the rural community and ancestral dread that define true folk horror. Instead, it is a modern fairy tale about power, parenting, and punk spirit, more Sabrina than The Wicker Man.

They discuss the film’s resourceful but patchy visual effects, improvised dialogue, and lighting that sometimes turns homemade into half-haunted. With only two main characters, the supposed isolation feels more like lockdown necessity than mythic setting. The music, provided by the family’s own band, adds drive but not always menace, leading to a film that fascinates more than it frightens.

Scoring the film out of 30, the panel agree on its good intentions but modest success. Andy gives it five, David Hall three and a half, and Dave Houghton three, for a total of eleven and a half. All agree that the Adams family’s spirit and imagination outstrip their resources, but that Hellbender’s claim to folk horror status relies more on marketing than merit.

Still, there is admiration for the effort. Making a feature film from scratch during lockdown deserves respect, even if the cauldron bubbles over. The trio conclude that Hellbender might be more of a family diary in disguise, a story about creativity and confinement rather than ancient rites or rural terror.

Join in and raise a glass (and an eyebrow) to the Adams family’s DIY witchery, ponder whether feeding on fear ever pays off, and debate once more the immortal question: Is it really folk horror?

Enjoyed this episode? Follow FolknHell for fresh folk-horror deep dives. Leave us a rating, share your favourite nightmare, and join the cult on Instagram @FolknHell.

Full transcripts, show notes folkandhell.com.

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