The 2024 Philippine supernatural horror film Espantaho has captivated audiences with its eerie atmosphere, gripping narrative, and powerhouse performances. Directed by Chito S. Roño and written by Chris Martinez, the film delves into the unsettling traditions surrounding death and mourning, blending folklore with psychological horror. If you’re looking for a film that will keep you on edge while exploring deep emotional conflicts, Espantaho is a must-watch.
Where to Watch Espantaho in the Philippines
You can now stream Espantaho on Netflix. The film became available on the platform on May 22, 2025, and is also known internationally as Scarecrow.
Production Details
Espantaho was produced by Quantum Films, Cineko Productions, and Purple Bunny Productions. The film was released theatrically on December 25, 2024, as part of the 50th Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF). It was later scheduled to premiere at the Manila International Film Festival (MIFF) in Los Angeles on January 30, 2025.
Key Production Team
- Director: Chito S. Roño
- Screenplay: Chris Martinez
- Producer: Patricia Sumagui
- Cinematography: Neil Daza
- Editing: Benjo Ferrer
- Music: Von de Guzman
- Production Design: Angel Diesta
Characters and Cast
The film boasts an impressive ensemble cast, bringing depth and intensity to the story:
- Judy Ann Santos as Monet – The protagonist mourning her father’s death.
- Lorna Tolentino as Rosa – Monet’s mother, caught in a web of secrets.
- Chanda Romero as Adele – The legal wife of the deceased patriarch.
- Janice de Belen as Andie
- JC Santos as Jack
- Mon Confiado as Roy
- Nico Antonio as Henri
- Donna Cariaga as Frida
- Kian Co as Keith
- Eugene Domingo as Georgia
- Tommy Abuel as Professor Manalastas
Plot
In the dusky halls of an old, crumbling ancestral home somewhere deep in the rural veins of the Philippines, grief hangs heavy in the air. Espantaho begins not with screams, but silence — the thick, oppressive kind that wraps around a family in mourning. Monet returns to the family estate with her mother, Rosa, to mourn the recent death of Pabling, her grandfather and the family patriarch. The wake is held in accordance with pasiyam, the traditional nine-day vigil of prayer and remembrance, a sacred Filipino rite to help the dead move on.
But the house isn’t just haunted by memory — it’s a battleground. On the surface, it’s about inheritance. Beneath, it’s about betrayal. Adele, Pabling’s legal wife (not Rosa, who was his long-time partner), arrives with her children in tow, staking her legal claim to the house and the surrounding land. Rosa, though emotionally tethered to the place, has no legal standing. This intrusion splits the family into factions. Grief turns sour. The air thickens with resentment.
Then strange things begin to happen.
On the second night of the pasiyam, a mysterious painting appears on the doorstep. It depicts a scarecrow — life-sized, unsettling, eyes that follow you like it remembers something you did. No one knows where it came from or who delivered it. It’s signed by a fictional artist, a name tied to no gallery, no reputation, no real person. That’s the first clue that something isn’t right. But it’s brushed off as a weird prank. A coincidence. Just grief playing tricks on everyone’s senses.
Except, people start disappearing.
First, a relative goes missing in the night. Then a caretaker. At first, it’s blamed on stress, on people choosing to leave to avoid the family drama. But Monet begins to suspect otherwise. She suffers from seizures, which blur the line between vision and reality. In one of her episodes, she sees the spirit of her biological mother — a woman long dead — whispering dire warnings. The ghost doesn’t speak in full sentences, just glimpses and fragments. “He’s watching.” “It’s coming.” “Don’t trust them.”
That’s when the scarecrow starts appearing outside the house — not in the painting, but in the real world. Standing in the yard. Then on the porch. Then by the bedroom window. No one knows who’s moving it. Or if it’s moving on its own.
As each day of the pasiyam passes, the ancestral home seems to rot from within. Walls bleed. Doors lock themselves. The family spirals into paranoia. Tensions explode between Rosa and Adele, dredging up old secrets: infidelities, inheritance fraud, a long-buried betrayal that shattered the family years ago. Through it all, Monet becomes the unwilling medium — her seizures giving her disturbing insight into the family’s bloody history and the scarecrow’s origin.
The Espantaho is more than a cursed figure. It’s a manifestation — stitched together from the sins of the past, animated by resentment, soaked in generational trauma. It’s not a ghost or demon in the usual sense. It’s vengeance personified. Created, maybe even willed into existence, by years of bitterness, betrayal, and silence. It doesn’t haunt randomly — it hunts based on guilt.
Monet’s visions deepen, and through them, she uncovers the horrifying truth: Pabling didn’t just die. He was sacrificed. An ancient folk ritual was performed — one that required the blood of a patriarch to awaken a curse meant to protect the land from outsiders. But the ritual was botched, and instead of protection, it summoned a vengeful entity. The scarecrow was the vessel.
The painting wasn’t random. It was an invitation. Or a warning.
In the climax, Rosa and Adele are forced to confront each other — not just over the estate, but over the sins they’ve both committed in the name of love, loyalty, and survival. Monet, caught between their legacies, realizes the only way to stop the Espantaho is to end the cycle — not with another death, but by telling the truth. She reveals everything — the curse, the betrayal, the secrets each family member kept buried to protect their version of the past.
But truth comes at a cost.
The scarecrow claims one final soul before vanishing into the night, its duty fulfilled. The house, now quiet, begins to decay. The family, fractured beyond repair, disperses.
Espantaho closes not with triumph, but with acceptance. Monet stands in the garden where the scarecrow once loomed, surrounded by silence again — not the suffocating kind, but the solemn stillness that follows a storm.
In Espantaho, horror isn’t just supernatural — it’s inherited. Passed down in whispers, secrets, and blood. And in the end, it isn’t the monster in the yard we fear most — it’s the ones sitting across from us at the dinner table.
Edd's Takeaway
Espantaho had all the right ingredients to be something truly unforgettable — a rich Filipino cultural backdrop, a killer cast, and a director known for playing the long game in horror. I walked into it ready to be scared, emotionally wrecked, and spiritually disturbed. And for the first 20 minutes, I thought I would be. The atmosphere was thick, the house felt alive, and there was a simmering tension beneath every interaction. It sets a mood that crawls under your skin, and for a while, I was completely on board.
Let’s start with the good, because there is a lot to admire. Judy Ann Santos, Lorna Tolentino, and Chanda Romero deliver performances that hit you in the gut. You can feel the grief, the tension, the generational baggage — it’s all written on their faces. Even when the script falters, these women carry the film on their backs with raw, believable emotion. There’s a heaviness to their performances that grounds the supernatural elements in real pain. That emotional authenticity makes the story feel less like a horror flick and more like a family tragedy wrapped in a ghost story.
Visually, Espantaho is stunning. The cinematography is deliberate and moody, making full use of shadows, candlelight, and silence. You can practically feel the humidity of the old ancestral home, the creaking floorboards, the weight of the dead watching from the corners. The musical score is also top-tier — subtle but unsettling, pushing the tension without overdoing it. It's clear the team behind the camera knew how to build a horror vibe.
But atmosphere and emotion alone don’t carry a horror film — pacing and payoff do. And Espantaho fumbles both.
The movie drags. Some scenes stretch far past their welcome, milking the drama until it turns theatrical. Other moments, ones that should be steeped in dread or terror, pass without leaving much of a mark. There's a frustrating imbalance — like the film can't decide whether it wants to be a horror movie or a telenovela. The family drama, while compelling in doses, frequently overshadows the horror. And that’d be fine if the horror wasn’t being teased so consistently. Instead, it builds and builds… and then fizzles out just when it should hit hardest.
The supernatural elements — particularly the scarecrow, the so-called Espantaho — are underwhelming. Conceptually, it’s creepy: a cursed figure born from unresolved trauma and familial betrayal. But in execution? It lacks teeth. The CGI, when it appears, feels clunky and dated. It pulls you out of the moment, especially when everything else is so grounded and beautifully shot. It’s like watching a stage play where someone suddenly wheels in a cardboard monster. You don’t want to laugh, but you kind of do.
What stings most is that the film flirts with greatness. The ideas are there. The metaphor of the scarecrow as a symbol of generational sin? Brilliant. The use of the pasiyam as a narrative spine? Inspired. But it never fully leans into the horror of it all. It’s like it wants to be Hereditary but doesn’t trust the audience enough to go that deep, that disturbing. Instead, it falls back on melodrama and exposition, telling instead of showing, spoon-feeding rather than letting the dread unfold naturally.
There are also too many unanswered questions and loose ends. Characters vanish with no real closure. Some plot threads are introduced, hinted at, and then completely abandoned. There’s a sense that this film was edited down from something longer, or that parts were rewritten mid-shoot. It’s disjointed, and that lack of narrative cohesion saps the momentum every time it starts to build.
Still, I can't say I hated Espantaho. There’s heart in it. There’s cultural weight and emotional resonance. It’s doing something rare for Filipino horror — trying to elevate the genre beyond jump scares and cheap thrills. But it’s also caught in its own ambitions, unsure of whether it wants to haunt us or just make us cry. That indecision hurts it.
Bottom line: Espantaho is a solid, sometimes striking horror-drama hybrid that shows flashes of brilliance but ultimately plays it too safe. It gives us atmosphere over actual fear, emotion over execution. If you're in the mood for a slow-burn family drama wrapped in a ghost story, it's worth a watch — just manage your expectations. If you're here for full-blown horror, real scares, and disturbing imagery, you’ll probably leave more frustrated than frightened.
And honestly? That’s the scariest part of all — watching a film this promising come so close to greatness, only to let it slip through its fingers.
: A Haunting Tale of Secrets, Betrayal, and the Supernatural){kind=link}
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