Mike Flanagan brings to life his most ambitious vision yet in the sixth episode of The Haunting of Hill House, “Two Storms.” A deeply emotional work, the episode unfolds as a near-operatic mediation on grief, guilt, and ghost stories, flawlessly strung together with a series of extensive long takes.
The series has always incorporated emotional storytelling, but this one is so raw and powerful that it can be said to shatter the Crain family wide open, confronting them with all the secrets and pain they have tried to hide during a night that feels as tightly congested with feelings as it does with space.
Although the premise is deceptively straightforward – the Crain siblings, the last of the family, rejoin for Nell’s funeral, trying to hold themselves together – they fail spectacularly. “Two Storms” features a quiet wake and flashbacks to Hill House set during storms, giving the feeling of a ghost story recounted in a single sigh. The circularity of the tale is striking; beyond revisiting pain, it is staring grief in the eye. For the most part, the camera remains static; so too does everyone in the space.
This episode’s chronologic mastery captures attention, as the stunning visuals and graceful shifts between timelines and characters are remarkable in their own right. But in fact, every minute detail, such as lighting, camera angles, pacing, and dialogue delivery, is synchronized to the deep sorrow of the Crain family. The specters are tangible, yet they also signify something deeper. In “Two Storms,” the lines separating reality and emotions are effectively blurred.
Long takes and longer shadows in The Haunting of Hill House

“Two Storms” plays out in just five uninterrupted shots, and it’s a masterclass in visual storytelling. The camera glides through the funeral home and Hill House alike, refusing to blink as tensions boil over. These long takes don't just serve as a gimmick—they trap the audience in the Crains’ suffocating emotional space. We’re there for every sideways glance, every swallowed sob, every crack in the façade. It’s like being caught in a waking nightmare where there’s no escape but to keep watching.
What’s more chilling is the way these continuous takes distort time and space. Hugh stepping into the bathroom and emerging into Hill House isn’t treated like a ghostly jump scare—it’s a slow, sickly slip into memory. The show doesn’t announce its horror anymore; it creeps.
One moment, you’re listening to Theo and Steve snipe at each other; the next, you’re inside a storm with child-Nell whispering about the Bent-Neck Lady. These shifts in The Haunting of Hill House feel less like flashbacks and more like trauma folding in on itself.
The family that grieves apart, breaks apart

At its heart, The Haunting of Hill House's “Two Storms” isn’t about what happened to Nell—it’s about what her death forces everyone else to confront. Each sibling performs grief in a different key: Steve intellectualizes it, Shirley controls it, Theo drinks through it, and Luke runs from it. Their father, Hugh, carries it like a ghost on his shoulder, still talking to Olivia as if she never left. In this house of mourning, nobody can agree on how to feel, but they all demand to be the one who feels the most.
The peak emotional part of the episode isn’t a shriek or ghostly figure, but rather it’s a battle. The protracted family conflict boils over to Nell’s well-being and Steve’s earnings from book royalties. It’s as if Nell is saying enough is enough when her casket topples mid-argument.
But the reality is that they still don’t, not really. What stands out the most is the most poignant—and haunting—truth of them all in The Haunting of Hill House: sorrow does not cease to exist after someone passes. It simply discovers a different manner in which to linger.
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