From the snow-choked streets of Derry, Maine, comes Stephen King’s most chilling creation in years — Hellhound (2026) — a story that begins with love, loyalty, and loneliness, and ends somewhere far darker. Written with King’s trademark blend of dread and tenderness, and brought to life by Ethan Hawke and Florence Pugh in two career-defining performances, this is a film that howls at the moon and bites deep into the soul.
The story opens in quiet despair. David Carter (Ethan Hawke), a widowed teacher, lives on the edge of Derry’s woods with his daughter Lily (Florence Pugh). Their lives are muted by grief — each meal eaten in silence, each day a reflection of what they’ve lost. When Lily discovers a wounded dog on the side of an icy road — a massive black shepherd with eyes that gleam like embers — it feels like a miracle. They name him Shadow, and for a time, the world softens. The dog sleeps at their feet, guards the house, and chases away the loneliness that had settled like frost.
But as winter thickens, small things begin to go wrong. Doors left open. Claw marks carved into the wooden floor. Paw prints appearing in the attic dust. When David’s elderly neighbor disappears one night, the snow outside his house runs pink. The local sheriff writes it off as a tragic accident — but Lily sees the truth. She’s been hearing whispers in the dark. Words that sound like her name. And when she looks into Shadow’s eyes, she swears she sees her mother staring back.
Stephen King’s script unfolds like a dark lullaby — slow, rhythmic, and inexorably tightening. Hellhound isn’t just about a dog that might be a monster; it’s about grief taking shape, about the seductive comfort of evil disguised as salvation. King’s prose, adapted by director Mike Flanagan (Doctor Sleep, Midnight Mass), breathes through every frame. The film isn’t filled with cheap scares but with mounting dread — the kind that comes from realizing you’ve welcomed the thing that will destroy you.
Ethan Hawke delivers one of his most nuanced performances yet. His David is a man trying to hold onto faith in a world that’s stopped listening. The love he pours into Shadow feels almost sacred, a replacement for what death took from him. When the truth begins to show — when Shadow’s shadow stretches too long across the wall, when his reflection in the mirror lags a second behind — Hawke’s unraveling feels heartbreakingly real. Florence Pugh, meanwhile, is extraordinary as Lily: fierce, fragile, and intuitive in that uncanny way children of tragedy often are. Her scenes of confrontation — whispering prayers to an animal that watches her with human hunger — are electric with terror.
Visually, Hellhound is a snowstorm of beauty and horror. Cinematographer Greig Fraser turns Derry into a white tomb, where the snow muffles screams and the night sky feels alive. The creature design is masterful: Shadow remains mostly unseen until the third act, his monstrous form glimpsed only in reflection or fogged glass. When he finally reveals his true self — a lupine shape with ember eyes and antlers of bone — the moment is biblical, horrifying, and heartbreakingly inevitable.
The film’s second half descends into psychological nightmare. As David becomes increasingly isolated, convinced his neighbors are conspiring against him, Lily takes refuge in an old journal belonging to her late mother. Its pages reveal a horrifying lineage — a family curse dating back centuries, when their ancestors struck a bargain during Derry’s “Black Winter.” The deal: protection in exchange for devotion. The cost: their bloodline, bound to the beast. The more David clings to Shadow, the more his humanity decays. The house itself becomes possessed by grief, its walls groaning under unseen weight.
Composer Benjamin Wallfisch’s score is pure tension — a heartbeat beneath ice. Strings shiver like breath in cold air, and deep, guttural tones rumble whenever Shadow moves. It’s a soundscape that gnaws at the mind, reminding the audience that horror can be both physical and emotional.
