That little mocking melody. La-la-la-la... sleep now... la-la-la... It floats out of the static hiss of old magnetic tape, a child's lullaby warped into something sinister, promising not rest, but a descent into grainy, illogical dread. It’s the siren song of Ghosthouse (1988), a film that feels less like a structured narrative and more like a fever dream pieced together from the spare parts of better horror movies, yet somehow lodges itself in your memory banks like a shard of glass. You find yourself humming that tune days later, a faint chill tracing your spine.
A Signal from Beyond... Sort Of
The premise, like many joys plucked from the dusty shelves of the video store horror section, is gloriously nonsensical. Paul (Greg Scott), a ham radio enthusiast (remember those?), picks up a desperate cry for help intertwined with that haunting nursery rhyme. Being a sensible protagonist in an 80s horror flick, he traces the signal not to the authorities, but decides to investigate personally, dragging along his girlfriend Martha (Lara Wendel). Their destination? A dilapidated, isolated mansion in Massachusetts, the kind of place where property taxes are presumably paid in souls. Because of course, they arrive just as another group of young people – prime slasher fodder – decides the abandoned house is the perfect spot for a weekend hangout. It’s a setup so convenient, so brazenly engineered for mayhem, you can almost hear the gears grinding behind the screen.
Lenzi's Touch of Tuscan Terror
This is Italian horror maestro Umberto Lenzi territory, folks. While perhaps best known for his gritty Poliziotteschi or the stomach-churning Cannibal Ferox (1981), Lenzi brought his particular brand of workmanlike, often brutal, and occasionally baffling filmmaking to the supernatural here. Filming on location in Massachusetts certainly lends Ghosthouse an authentic American Gothic backdrop, a stark contrast to the purely Italian sensibilities driving the plot. There’s a pervasive sense of decay hanging over the titular house, captured with a kind of grim efficiency. Lenzi isn’t interested in subtlety; he wants to get to the ghostly shenanigans and the ensuing gore, and the film chugs along with a kind of relentless, dreamlike (or maybe nightmare-like) logic.
One fascinating bit of VHS-era marketing mischief: in Italy and some other markets, Ghosthouse was released as La Casa 3. Yes, attempting to pass itself off as an unofficial sequel to Sam Raimi's The Evil Dead (1981) and Evil Dead II (1987), which were titled La Casa and La Casa 2 respectively in Italy. This kind of audacious branding was classic Italian genre filmmaking strategy, hoping to lure unsuspecting renters looking for Ash Williams and instead delivering... well, this. Does knowing this was essentially a knock-off marketed under false pretenses diminish its oddball charm? Not one bit.
The Doll. That Damn Doll.
Let’s be honest, the main reason Ghosthouse lingers is Henriette. Not the ghostly little girl whose tragic past haunts the residence, but her porcelain counterpart – a grinning, malevolent clown doll that seems to be everywhere at once. Its painted smile is frozen in a rictus of pure malice, its eyes seemingly following the characters (and the viewer) with unnerving focus. Combined with that relentlessly creepy lullaby composed by Piero Montanari, the doll elevates the film from standard haunted house fare to something genuinely unsettling in patches. Practical effects surrounding the doll and the spectral groundskeeper, Valkos, are pure 80s Italian grit – sometimes clumsy, sometimes surprisingly effective in their visceral unpleasantness. Forget nuanced scares; Lenzi often goes for the jugular, sometimes literally. The acting is... earnest? The young cast members try their best with dialogue that often feels translated and slightly off-kilter, navigating plot twists that defy conventional reasoning. It adds to the film's overall strange, slightly detached atmosphere.
An Unsettling Echo in the Static
Is Ghosthouse a good film by conventional standards? Probably not. The plot is a chaotic mess, character motivations are frequently baffling, and the pacing lurches unpredictably. Yet, watching it again on a fuzzy transfer, you can almost feel the phantom weight of that oversized VHS clamshell case in your hands. It represents a specific flavor of 80s horror – imported, slightly dangerous-feeling, operating by its own bizarre rules. It wasn't slick Hollywood horror; it was something rougher, stranger, dredged up from the subconscious of Italian exploitation cinema and unleashed upon unsuspecting American audiences via the local video rental shop. I distinctly remember the ominous cover art staring out from the shelf, promising nightmares fueled by that creepy clown face. It rarely disappointed on that front, even if the path there was bewildering.
Did the sheer illogical nature of the plot ever pull you out of it, or did it just add to the dreamlike weirdness back then? For me, it often enhanced the feeling that anything could happen, no matter how little sense it made.
***
VHS Heaven Rating: 5/10
Justification: Ghosthouse is undeniably flawed – the script is borderline incoherent, the acting is wooden, and much of the direction is perfunctory. However, it earns points for its genuinely creepy central elements (that unforgettable doll and its associated theme music), some effectively grim practical gore effects true to Lenzi's style, and its sheer, unadulterated 80s Italian horror weirdness. The 'La Casa 3' marketing ploy adds a layer of fascinating B-movie history. It's not high art, but its unsettling atmosphere and iconic doll grant it a peculiar staying power within the realm of cult VHS horror.
Final Thought: A messy, illogical, but strangely memorable slice of Italian-American haunted house horror, carried almost entirely by one of the creepiest dolls in cinema history and a tune that will burrow into your brain. Perfect for a late-night viewing when you crave something genuinely weird from the back shelves of the video store archives.