Some houses creak. This one remembers.

After a sudden move to a remote old farmhouse, Skyla and her mother are hoping for a quiet reset. What they find instead is a silence that doesn't feel empty, only watchful. The walls seem too thin. The shadows linger too long. And something behind the attic door refuses to stay forgotten.

As the snow deepens and the isolation sets in, dreams twist, memories falter, and the line between waking and sleep begins to blur. Whatever haunts this place isn't loud. It doesn't need to be.

It's patient.

The Sleepwalker is a psychological horror about the weight of memory, the fragility of trust, and the terrifying things we inherit when we're not looking.