Evil Things

The group leaves New York City for a quiet weekend in the Catskills, but the ride already feels unsettled. A noisy maroon van shadows them on the highway, and a routine gas stop becomes suspicious when the same vehicle is spotted again. A forgotten phone handed over at the station is treated as a breadcrumb, hinting someone is watching from the edges.

The friends arrive at the secluded country home and attempt to unwind. A birthday surprise and the presence of a filmmaker among them lend warmth, but the roomful of candles glosses over a creeping unease. Laughter competes with whispered notes of dread as the camera lingers on ordinary moments.

Night falls and the house carries sounds that aren't easily explained. Voices seem to drift through walls, and a sense of being watched settles over the group. The crew's attention to the camera can't mask the growing tension that something is stalking their retreat.

The next day the group ventures into a snow-kissed forest, where paths vanish and the woods seem to swallow voices. Radios crackle with indistinct chatter as branches snap and fear tightens its grip. They return to the house with a sharper awareness that they are not alone.

A brown paper-wrapped video tape appears on the doorstep, and the footage within reveals they have been under surveillance since leaving the city. The same maroon van haunts gas stations, diners, and the house itself, tracking their every move. The intimate moments—the friendships, the laughter, and the sleeping rooms—are documented, turning trust into vulnerability.

Power fails and signals die as fear tightens its grip. Their car vanishes and a threatening van reappears in the driveway. The lights go out completely, a two-way radio crackles to life, and a door slams from the inside, trapping someone while muffled cries echo in the dark.

The stalker remains unseen but omnipresent, watching from the shadows as the group attempts to flee. A camera is lost in the scramble, and a scream splits the night when a figure closes in. The house becomes a maze of hiding spaces while the outside world seems to close in.

Inside the home, the stalker’s gaze moves through rooms with night-vision clarity as the hunt tightens on Cassy. She is cornered in a desperate, blinding moment, and the scene cuts to black as screams erupt. The fear is intimate and immediate, not just a distant threat.

A startling truth emerges from the footage: the stalker sits among monitors, watching another feed and stitching together a pattern. The same threat threads through different groups, suggesting the danger is ongoing and not confined to this weekend. The camera’s cold tally of victims reveals a methodical predator.

The closing montage traces the stalker’s movements from highway sightings to woodland chases and intimate surveillance of sleeping rooms. The film emphasizes exposure and fear, leaving the audience with a chilling sense that disappearance is a real possibility for anyone captured in the frame. The predator’s reach feels both personal and pervasive.

The ending hints that the threat moves beyond a single house to parks and streets where gatherings occur. The stalker’s pursuit becomes a creeping menace that can enter any space where friends assemble. The line between safety and danger remains blurred, and escape is never guaranteed.

The final shots linger on the stalker’s methodical approach and continued surveillance. The weekend away becomes a haunting, untraceable pursuit that hints at disappearances that never truly end. The credits sustain the unease, suggesting danger is always a step behind the frame.