The Quiet Terror of Them: Scare — And Why It Stayed With Me

Across the years—stretching all the way back to the tail end of the 90s—I’ve consumed more TV shows than I can probably justify. But a very few got inside me. The Sopranos rearranged my understanding of character. Breaking Bad taught me how to appreciate a narrative that burns slow but detonates loud. Snowfall had the emotional honesty of a tragedy that refuses to blink. And Friends—well, that sat somewhere in my bloodstream for entirely different reasons.

These were shows that didn’t just entertain me; they nudged something inside me—sometimes a belief, sometimes a personal habit, sometimes even my sense of identity or style.

Recently, an unexpected entrant joined that list.

An underrated, faintly whispered recommendation of a show called Them. More specifically, its second season: Them: Scare. It’s an anthology series, so there’s no homework required. You can slide right into Season 2 without bothering about the first.

And honestly? I didn’t expect much.

But the show caught me off guard. It’s the kind of horror that doesn’t leap at you—it presses into you. Quietly. Calmly. Almost patiently.

A Quick Summary of Them: Scare

Set in Los Angeles in the late 90s, Them: Scare follows two seemingly unrelated stories.

One belongs to Dawn Reeve, an LAPD detective trying to solve a series of disturbing murders while balancing the pressures of being a Black woman in an institution that questions her at every step. Her investigation quickly drifts into psychological territory—eerie visions, unexplained occurrences, and a pervasive sense that she’s circling something old, cruel, and deeply personal.

The other revolves around Edmund Gaines, a softly spoken wannabe actor whose life unravels into something far darker than ambition. His story is a descent—slow, painful, almost hypnotic—into trauma, obsession, and a terrifying lineage he never fully understood.

The Atmosphere: A Horror That Doesn’t Beg for Your Attention

Its horror lives in the corners, in the quiet, in the long-held shot that lingers one second too long. It creates a mood that is genuinely unsettling, not cheap, not gimmicky or amateurish. It’s the very opposite of something like From, which I personally hate for its cheesiness.

There is something almost elegant about the way this show terrifies you.

The Acting: Every Performance Feels a Little Too Real

Deborah Ayorinde (as Dawn) plays a woman who is constantly negotiating the edges of her own sanity, yet walking with the responsibility of a detective who can’t afford to crack in public. It’s a layered performance—quiet on the surface, volcanic underneath.

Luke James (as Edmund) is haunting in a way that’s difficult to shake off. His face carries both vulnerability and danger, as if he’s perpetually teetering between wanting to be seen and wanting to disappear. I still am dreading the nights!

The Themes: Trauma, Identity, and the Uncomfortable Interiors of Family

This isn’t just a horror show. It’s an excavation.

Underneath the supernatural threads, Them: Scare digs into intergenerational trauma, Black identity in overwhelmingly white systems, self-worth, rejection, and the quiet violence that families can inflict without raising their voices.

Some moments hit harder because they feel familiar—not in a plot sense, but in a psychological one. Growing up in India, with its own cocktail of judgement, pressure, silent expectations, and the slow burn of toxic parenting, I felt a strange kinship with the characters’ internal battles. Not identical experiences, obviously—but parallel enough to stir something.

Two Narratives That Drift Apart… and Snap Together

One of the boldest choices the show makes is letting Dawn and Edmund’s stories run almost independently. For long stretches, they feel like different shows stitched together—different energy, different stakes, different pace.

But there’s a craft to the disconnection.

Like a good mystery, the show keeps placing quiet breadcrumbs, trusting the audience to hold the tension. And by the time the threads merge, the connection feels inevitable—like a puzzle you didn’t realize you’d been assembling in the background.

Why Them: Scare Stayed With Me

The show never tries too hard. It never shouts.

It behaves like a horror story written by someone who knows that fear is most powerful when it’s personal.

For me, it stirred memories—small ones, quiet ones—of growing up around emotional volatility, the fragility of self-esteem in the hands of caregivers, and the way childhood wounds can echo much louder in adulthood.

The show doesn’t lecture. It doesn’t moralize.

It simply exposes, with a kind of cinematic tenderness that makes the darker moments land even harder.

Them: Scare isn’t perfect, but it is memorable—and that’s a rarer achievement. It’s a mood-heavy, well-acted, deeply human horror story that rewards patient viewers. If you want something that lingers after the credits roll, this one deserves your attention.

Give it a chance. Let it work on you slowly.