Amid the salt‑gnawed cliffs of a wartime Scottish isle stands St Augustine’s, a convent whose silent walls betray more than whispered prayers. The film opens in 1942, as a storm‑tossed basket—its fragile cargo an abandoned neonate—arrives at the sisters’ threshold, igniting an unseen fissure between devotion and dread.

Gothic horror intertwines with nunsploitation’s audacious flair, each habit‑clad figure cast in chiaroscuro, their faces half‑lit by candle and half‑claimed by shadow. Directors Nathan Shepka and Andy Crane, drawing on Tom Jolliffe’s pen and Shepka’s own wartime scars, sculpt an atmosphere of low‑budget poetry: wind howls through empty corridors, punctuated by a demonic lullaby that slithers into the soul.

The film wears its retro homage like a moth‑eaten veil, winking at 1970s cult cinema even as it plumbs existential depths—what faith endures when innocence itself harbors an abyss? With...