Sleepwalker

n Sleepwalker (2026), the screen opens not with terror but with silence — the kind that lingers in empty rooms just after sunrise, before grief has learned to speak. Sarah Pangborn once lived with clarity: she was an accomplished artist, a mother, a woman whose life was shaped by intention rather than impulse. But in the pain that follows a horrific car accident — a crash that stole her daughter and left her abusive husband in a coma — Sarah’s world fractures into something unrecognisable, something uncharted. What begins as daily mourning becomes an unraveling of reality itself. Her sleepwalking episodes begin quietly, almost tenderly, like a breath caught between waking and dream, but soon they grow more intense, carrying her into darkened hallways, unseen spaces within her home that she doesn’t remember entering and cannot explain. What is happening to her body in sleep begins to mirror what is happening to her mind in waking — the all-too-human desperation to understand loss, to confront the ghosts of memory that refuse to stay silent. Scenes drift between the familiar and the surreal: a painting smeared with grief, footsteps echoing in empty rooms, reflections in mirrors that betray truth for illusion. Sarah is pursued not by a monster outside, but by visions and half-seen things that blur the line between what is real and what is nightmare, compelling her toward a psychological precipice where every night becomes a test, and every morning a question without an answer.