Story: Madhu (Monika Panwar), a young woman from Gwalior, moves into a women’s hostel in Delhi, yearning for a fresh start. But when she’s assigned a room with a violent past, her new life quickly begins to unravel — haunted by memories she’s tried to forget and forces she can’t explain.

Review: After Chhorii 2, Amazon Prime’s Khauf attempts to carve its place in India’s evolving horror-thriller landscape. Set in the unsettling confines of a women’s hostel in Delhi, the series opens with a gripping premise: a haunted room with a tragic backstory and a protagonist trying to outrun her own demons. Creator and writer, Smita Singh — known for her work on Sacred Games and Raat Akeli Hai — crafts a tale that blends supernatural horror with psychological depth, though not without missteps.

At its core, Khauf isn’t just about what goes bump in the night. It’s about the traumas that cling to people long after the lights are back on. Monika Panwar anchors the narrative as Madhu, a woman trying to rebuild her life but finding herself slowly consumed by inner turmoil and external hauntings. Panwar’s performance is the spine of the show — understated yet powerful. Her expressions convey volumes in moments of quiet dread and complete psychological breakdown, especially during scenes of possession that are chilling not because of the ghost, but because of what it unearths in her.

Visually, Khauf gets a lot right. The hostel itself becomes a character — cloistered, oppressive, and whispering with the unspoken. Cinematographer Pankaj Kumar uses dim lighting and long silences to craft a feeling of unease that lingers throughout. The sound design smartly avoids the predictable horror beats, opting instead for a slow-building, ambient tension. However, the horror itself — the spectral presence that haunts the hostel — feels surprisingly toothless. Its design and screen presence lack the necessary edge to truly frighten. Scenes meant to evoke terror often simmer, but rarely boil over.

The hostel’s residents — Lana (Chum Darang), Nikki (Rashmi Zurail Mann), Rima (Priyanka Setia), Komal (Riya Shukla), and Anu (Asheema Vardaan) — form an intriguing, emotionally scarred group. Their stories speak to the societal expectations and personal demons many women navigate daily, but the series spreads itself thin trying to address too much at once: motherhood, mental health, ambition, gender roles. These themes, while important, dilute the horror narrative and muddle the emotional focus.

Rajat Kapoor as the mysterious man called Hakim from Old Delhi brings an unexpected gravitas, though his subplot, along with police constable Illu Mishra’s (Geetanjali Kulkarni) relentless search for her missing son, occasionally pulls focus from the main story. These strands, while thematically relevant, slow down the pacing and contribute to a screenplay that at times feels overstuffed and directionless.

Abhishek Chauhan, as Madhu’s boyfriend Arun, is tender and reliable, though their relationship is framed more by what was than what is. Still, the emotional flashbacks offer insight into Madhu’s fractured psyche. Gagan Arora, in a rare negative role, delivers a quietly menacing performance, offering a morally complex presence that adds edge to the ensemble.

The girl gang — particularly Priyanka Setia, Chum Darang, Riya Shukla, Rashmi Zurail Mann, and Asheema Vardaan — makes a solid impression. Their sense of entrapment, both physical and emotional, is one of the show’s stronger collective beats. Shalini Vatsa is decent as Gracie Dungdung, the warden who’s stern yet protective, while Shilpa Shukla delivers an impactful cameo as the sharp Dr. Shohini.

The most jarring element of these eight-hourly episodes is its genre pivot. Just when the supernatural is at its peak, the show abruptly leans into socio-psychological realism — suggesting that what we’ve been watching is less about ghosts and more about internalized trauma, patriarchal violence, and inherited pain. These are powerful ideas, but the tonal shift is handled clumsily. Instead of complementing the horror, it undermines it. The final episodes, while emotionally resonant, leave the horror thread feeling abandoned. The show tries to explain too much, and in doing so, it loses some of its unsettling ambiguity.

Khauf is a bold, genre-blending attempt that nearly lands. It thrives on a compelling lead performance and thematic ambition, but its uneven pacing and overcomplicated subplots prevent it from fully realizing its potential. For fans of psychological horror with a social conscience, Khauf offers plenty to think about — even if it doesn’t always chill to the bone.