House at the End of the Street gets off to a remarkably rocky start, treating its audience to a flashback murder sequence where a knife hits a bed and instantly triggers a localized snowstorm of pillow feathers. Seriously, what kind of pillow is this? Were they sleeping on an unsealed sack of loose goose down? It’s a hilarious, overdramatic tone-setter for a movie that never quite figures out what it wants to be.

Jennifer Lawrence anchors the film, though "acting" might be a strong word for her performance here. For the most part, the only scenes with actual personality are the ones where she is just leaning into her own natural, sarcastic self. There are also a few musical interludes where she sings—moments so incredibly stiff you have to assume there were more musical numbers left on the cutting room floor, and these only survived out of sheer necessity.

The biggest offense, however, is the marketing. This film was heavily packaged and sold as a supernatural, haunted house demon movie. The reality? It’s a very grounded, deeply unfortunate story about a mentally unwell guy whose crackhead parents left him so traumatized he resorts to kidnapping women to replace his dead sister.

When the twist finally drops in the third act, there is a brief, shining moment where it feels like the movie is about to do something genuinely cool. Instead, it instantly devolves into standard slasher fare: stab, stab, die, almost die, escape, move away.

I didn't entirely hate the experience, but I certainly didn't love it. It’s a movie that simply happens to you, and absolutely not one I can recommend.