In addition to this, even though the flick is pleasingly downbeat throughout, there's still a couple seconds at the end that make a man wanna puke.

Also, why the hell do ghosts have to be so damn cryptic all the time? (ha ha. Cryptic. And they're ghosts, so…) If they've only got one chance for to get some vital message across, why not just come out and fucking say it? "Yeah, thing is, I'm (Whoever the hell. Deceased), I buried my life savings under the tree in the back yard. There's a shovel in the shed. Go about four foot, four and a half, tops. Just under the oak that's got the carving of a penis on it. The address is 444 North Crescent. Not 445, although they also have a similar tree. Cheers."

Why all this "Maple… Ash… Don't believe it" nonsense? Why all the "Jimmy… isn't… frozen?"

Unless maybe you were enquiring as to the reliability of a cryogenic chamber you been working on, and the test subject is a fella called Jimmy. But I digress.

So what can be learned from it all is that even with a screenplay that borders on ridiculous half-way-through, you can still craft a memorable, brilliantly effective horror flick by taking the time to make sure every fucking scene has the ability to jangle a man's nerves. It might just be that there's a mirror in the top left that unsettles for no discernable reason. It might just be that someone's putting on a radio, and you know no good can come of it, and even if the scene ends and everything's grand, you're still thinking about that damn radio, how some catastrophic shit must be just around the corner.

It ain't perfect, but it reaches something approaching fantastic on several occasions, and it tries, man. It doesn't rely on fancy effects or teens running about the place, and it manages to completely avoid any possible similarities with that flick about Kevin Costner's wife gets attacked by a giant Dragonfly or some shit.

It's well worth seeing, is what. Like a lot of that spooky Asian malarkey, it stretches the old suspension of disbelief well beyond any polite boundary, but what you remember is the shit in-between, the half-glimpsed faces, the seemingly-illogical sense of terror, the brilliance of Michael Motherfucking Keaton.

Good work, dead folks.

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