What do a bitter nightwatchman, a neurotic teenager, and a fast talking businessman expecting a child have in common? They are the anchors by which Ghost Stories manages to twist its anthology conceit in such a way that no matter how different, their experiences have a miraculous sense of connective tissues that begs audiences to re-watch the second it's over.

John Krasinski’s A Quiet Place is the rare movie that isn’t so much meant to be watched as it is experienced. It’s built around a gimmick that can only be fully appreciated in a crowded theater, like a no-tech version of something B-movie icon William Castle might have dreamed up half a century ago. Instead of vibrating chairs or hovering skeletons, Krasinski’s ploy is far more terrifying to modern moviegoers: silence. It’s almost as if, within its opening moments, the filmmaker dials down a theater’s soundscape until viewers feel guilty about breaking the tranquility.

If you will indulge me a digression, I promise that it will come back around. When I was in high school, I was always partial to stories involving magical realism. When our teachers assigned books like Midnight’s Children or One Hundred Years of Solitude I ate them up while my classmates struggled and groaned. I have always loved the dream-like nature of stories that keep the audience guessing about what is and isn’t really happening at any given time.