The Ghost Express (2026) is a hauntingly atmospheric supernatural thriller that understands one powerful idea: nothing is scarier than being unable to get off the journey you’re on. From its eerie premise to its claustrophobic execution, the film traps its audience just as effectively as it traps its characters—on a train hurtling toward a destination no one truly understands.
Emma Roberts delivers one of her more grounded and emotionally resonant performances as Claire, an ordinary woman thrust into extraordinary terror. She plays fear not as hysteria, but as quiet determination, making her an instantly relatable anchor. Claire isn’t a chosen hero or a fearless warrior—she’s someone who simply refuses to give up, even when the rules of reality begin to dissolve around her.
Finn Wolfhard’s Noah injects the film with nervous energy and youthful intuition. His ability to communicate with spirits is treated less like a superpower and more like a burden, and Wolfhard captures that weight beautifully. Noah becomes the bridge between the living and the dead, carrying knowledge that both helps and terrifies him—a role that fits naturally into his growing legacy in supernatural storytelling.
Bill Skarsgård is hypnotic as the train’s enigmatic conductor. Every word he speaks feels deliberate, every glance unsettling. He doesn’t rely on overt menace; instead, his calm presence suggests something far worse than violence—inevitability. Skarsgård turns the conductor into a symbol of fate itself, reminding passengers that some journeys cannot be negotiated.
Tessa Thompson’s spiritual medium brings depth and quiet strength to the ensemble. Her character understands the rules of the supernatural but knows better than to trust them completely. Thompson plays her with empathy and restraint, offering moments of warmth in a film otherwise drenched in dread. She represents acceptance—not surrender, but understanding.
The train is the film’s greatest achievement. Narrow corridors, dim lights, fogged windows, and endless compartments create an overwhelming sense of confinement. The outside world becomes meaningless as the tracks stretch into darkness, reinforcing the idea that escape isn’t just difficult—it may be impossible.
The ghosts themselves are not just jump-scare machines. Each spirit carries fragments of regret, guilt, or unfinished business, forcing the living passengers to confront their own buried truths. The film cleverly blurs the line between haunting and memory, suggesting that the most dangerous ghosts are the ones we carry inside us.
What truly elevates The Ghost Express is its pacing. The tension builds steadily, like the slow acceleration of the train itself. Rather than relying on constant scares, the film allows unease to simmer, making every sudden noise, flickering light, or whispered voice feel earned and impactful.
Thematically, the film explores transition—between life and death, past and present, denial and acceptance. Every character is running from something, and the train becomes a brutal reminder that avoidance only delays confrontation. There is no forward movement without reckoning.
As the destination draws closer, the film takes a darker, more philosophical turn. The question shifts from how do we escape? to should we? This moral tension gives the final act emotional weight, turning survival into something far more complex than staying alive.
By the time The Ghost Express (2026) reaches its chilling conclusion, it leaves behind a lingering sense of unease. It’s a film that doesn’t let you off easily—much like the train itself. Stylish, suspenseful, and quietly devastating, it proves that sometimes the scariest horror isn’t what’s waiting at the end of the line, but the realization that you’ve been heading there all along.
