My Spanish is patchy, and everything becomes confusing. They all cite each other, or cite the film, or cite hearsay, or cite nothing.
A Google search brings up a growing number of articles scrambling to reveal the ‘true story’ of the haunting. Apparently, residents of the house were equally convinced of the supernatural. It seems it was inspired by events that occurred in Madrid in 1991 – its major claim to truth is that it uses an actual police report from the incident, in which an officer reports something to the effect that ‘inexplicable phenomena’ occurred at the house where events occurred. There is something sinister about Verónica’s assertion that the film is based on reality. She’s unimpressed.īut this is no time for jokes. In a desperate attempt to restore sanity to the situation, I roll my eyes back in my head, fake a seizure, and start ranting in Latin. ‘How (clap)… do you (clap)… explain that (clap clap)?’ Sceptic that she is, she wants answers. How do you explain that, Sam?’ She claps her hands with the words to send them home. ‘The film is based on Spanish police reports, Sam. When the hair-drying is done, I plead with my sleep saboteur. The stuff of sleepless nights, I suppose, and sleepless mornings. Based on a ‘true story’ of demonic possession, it’s pretty scary. She is still annoyed that I made her watch the new Spanish horror flick Verónica the night before, and now is the hour of her retribution.ĭirected by Paco Plaza, Verónica has been described as ‘ the scariest film ever on Netflix’ and even ‘ the scariest horror film ever made’. In a semi-conscious dread, I open my eyes and behold the source – a far more rational terror, not so much spawned of el diablo than of a Dyson: my girlfriend is using her hairdryer not two metres from my head. Some other-dimensional spirit-being crying for its lost life. A demonic scourge from the nether realm. A piercing, diabolical howl possesses me.
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