She walks away from the crash. But maybe she didn’t. Pale figures stalk her, the world goes mute, and a ruined carnival calls her name. In Herk Harvey’s one-off miracle, death is a slow dissolve and the living can’t see you scream. Carnival of Souls feels like finding a lost reel from the underworld—cheap, bleak, and weirdly divine. You don’t watch it. You sink.