The bell tolls once, then the Halloween piano slips in under a cracked choir. Haddonfield’s burned‑out convent reopens for All Hallows’ Eve—and the town learns prayers can be invitations. Candles gutter backward; crucifixes turn their faces; a procession of empty habits crosses a cul‑de‑sac where trick‑or‑treaters freeze like statues. The camera breathes like a mask: white corridor, fluorescent hum, shoe squeak—silence—knife. Valak rides the shadows, bending rooms into confessionals; The Shape answers with footstep math and a blade that never hurries.

Shots bite: stained glass blooming black as Michael’s silhouette glides behind it; a school gym lit by votives as lockers bang in perfect Latin rhythm; an ICU blackout where heart monitors stutter into the Conjuring chant. A rosary chain snaps, looping his wrist; her grin flowers in the mask’s eyehole reflection. Title cards whisper: HE DOESN’T SPEAK. IT PRAYS FOR HIM. Choirs split to sirens, the theme collides, and the final frame locks on a knife reflecting a habit’s smile before both lunge out of the light. All saints, no mercy.