Haunted Factory is a gleefully chaotic collision of horror and comedy, the kind of film that understands fear works best when it shares the stage with laughter. Set inside a crumbling toy factory with a past that refuses to stay buried, the movie turns workplace misery into supernatural mayhem — and somehow makes it fun.
Kevin Hart anchors the madness as the factory’s overwhelmed owner, a man drowning in debt, deadlines, and desperation long before the ghosts show up. Hart leans into anxious energy rather than pure slapstick, portraying someone who desperately wants to succeed but can barely hold things together. His escalating panic becomes the film’s emotional and comedic engine.
Melissa McCarthy steals scenes with ease as the eccentric employee who may know far more about the factory’s history than she initially admits. Her performance walks a perfect line between absurd and unsettling, dropping cryptic hints through offhand jokes. Every smile feels like it might hide a secret, and McCarthy’s timing keeps the audience guessing whether she’s comic relief or something more.
John Cena plays the muscle of the group — a tough, well-meaning worker whose solution to most problems is brute force and optimism. Watching Cena attempt to physically intimidate possessed machinery and malfunctioning toys becomes one of the film’s running gags. His sincerity balances the chaos, grounding the team when things spiral into paranormal insanity.
Then there’s Aubrey Plaza, whose dry, detached presence adds a darker comedic edge. Her reactions to the haunting are unnervingly calm, making every scene she’s in feel slightly off-kilter. Plaza’s understated delivery turns simple lines into unsettling punchlines, reinforcing the film’s eerie undertone.
The factory itself becomes a character. Conveyor belts move on their own, assembly arms twitch like nervous fingers, and dolls whisper from dark corners. The ghosts aren’t malicious so much as mischievous, delighting in torment rather than terror. This playful haunting keeps the tone balanced, never tipping fully into horror but never losing its spooky edge either.
The film excels in its set pieces. Possessed toys stage small rebellions, machinery malfunctions at the worst possible moments, and production lines transform into haunted obstacle courses. These sequences are paced for both laughs and tension, creating a rhythm that keeps audiences engaged and guessing.
Beneath the chaos lies a simple, effective theme: survival through cooperation. As the team digs into the factory’s past, they discover the spirits are tied to unresolved mistakes and forgotten people. The haunting becomes less about fear and more about neglect — emotional and corporate alike.
Visually, Haunted Factory leans into industrial gloom mixed with bright, unsettling toy imagery. The contrast between innocence and decay gives the film its distinctive look, enhancing both its humor and its horror. Every creaking sound and flickering light feels purposeful.
The final act brings the ensemble together in a surprisingly heartfelt resolution. Instead of defeating the ghosts, the team learns to listen to them — turning chaos into understanding. It’s a clever subversion that reinforces the film’s playful tone without losing emotional weight.
Haunted Factory doesn’t aim to redefine horror-comedy, but it understands exactly what makes the genre work. With sharp performances, inventive scares, and a strong comedic core, it delivers a spirited ride that’s equal parts creepy and charming.
