Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson return with a gravity that chills the blood: her second sight like a candle fighting a hurricane, his steadfast courage bruised but unbroken. The trailer braids funeral hush to thunderclap terror—rosaries rattle, fonts curdle, and a chapel door exhales like a lung.

A possessed confessional whispers names it shouldn’t know; chalk circles blister; a child’s lullaby buckles into a scream under pipe-organ thunder. Ed sketches a sigil with shaking hands while Lorraine steps into a memory that bites back, corridors folding like paper saints around her.

The palette swings from candle-gold to morgue-blue; ash falls like black snow as something in the rafters crawls between prayers. Cuts land like heartbeats: a drowned bell tower, a coffin that knocks from the inside, a final stare where the demon smiles with someone else’s mouth. If this tease is any omen, Last Rites aims for sacrament-level dread—intimate, relentless, and inexorably haunted.