In Deemak, horror doesn’t roar—it creeps. The film builds its dread not with exaggerated scares, but through a slow unraveling of familial tensions and quiet supernatural disturbances. Inspired by unsettling real-life accounts from Balochistan and stories rooted in South Asian folklore, Deemak taps into a deeply psychological space that lingers long after the credits roll.
The movie draws loosely from the imagination of horror writer Ayesha Muzaffar, known for blending the mythical with the everyday on her platform Abusjinns.
With Rafay Rashdi in the director’s chair, the film turns a haunting domestic story into a tightly-wound experience steeped in silence and atmosphere.
Set in a creaky, aging mansion, the story centers around Faraz (Faysal Quraishi), caught between his emotionally strained wife Hiba (Sonya Hussyn) and his immobile, aging mother Dado (Samina Peerzada). Jawed Sheikh plays the looming presence of a father long gone, while Bushra Ansari makes a late but powerful appearance that grounds the narrative in generational commentary.
At its core, Deemak explores the crumbling relationship between a woman struggling with motherhood and a mother-in-law trapped in the trauma of her past. A mysterious fall leaves Dado paralyzed, and after the nurse leaves suddenly under strange circumstances, Hiba is left to shoulder every burden in a house that no longer feels safe. The setting—locked in the eerie quiet of the COVID era—only intensifies the isolation and dread.
The children are the first to sense something’s wrong. Flickers of movement, taps dripping endlessly, bedsheets writhing with termites—each detail adds to the growing unease. Yet no one believes them, and their warnings echo the classic horror trope: the innocent often see the truth first.
But Deemak isn’t interested in surface-level frights alone. The film uses horror as a metaphor for what festers under the surface—old wounds, repressed guilt, and emotional neglect. Termites become symbols for decay, not just in wood and walls, but in the soul of a family quietly coming apart.
Technically, the film manages to do what many Pakistani horror efforts have struggled with. The CGI, with international collaboration, is polished but not flashy. The supernatural visuals are subtle, enhancing the psychological tone. What truly drives the fear is sound: the film’s audio design crafts an invisible tension—whispers, gasps, distant laughter—all placed with unnerving precision.
Samina Peerzada gives a chilling performance despite barely moving, her expressions conveying more than any prosthetic could. Faysal Quraishi is the conflicted anchor, pulled between emotional responsibility and growing paranoia. Sonya Hussyn is perhaps the standout, portraying a quiet terror that never tips into hysteria but keeps the viewer tightly wound.
In the broader context of Pakistani horror, Deemak stands out for its patience. Unlike Zibahkhana’s gore or Aksbandh’s jump scares, this film leans more toward psychological weight and narrative control, similar to the moodier tone of In Flames.
By its final moments, Deemak leaves behind the typical horror wrap-up. There’s no loud climax, no clear resolution—just a grim realization: that the scariest things are not always ghosts, but the memories, regrets, and silence that eat away at us, bit by bit.
Deemak may not revolutionize horror, but it adds to its emotional vocabulary. It’s a quiet descent into dread, anchored by strong performances and a message that hits too close to home: sometimes, the real horror is what we choose to live with.
