Judging by the quality and content of The House That Screamed, I would have guessed that the film was made by a guy in his early twenties—someone with limited movie-making experience and even more limited resources. Turns out that the directors (yes, it took two people to make this 'masterpiece'), John and Mark Polonia, were 32 when they made this and that they had been involved in the film industry for quite some time. Some people should know when to call it a day.
Shot on video, written on a napkin (probably), and edited on drugs (seemingly), this crappy z-grade home-made horror sees the Polonia brothers undecided as to precisely what approach they want to take: serious art-house horror or exploitative trash. Having failed to come to a decision, they do both, while chucking in any other extraneous ideas that pop into their heads while filming. Thus, we get a film that is part incomprehensible audio-visual experiment and part cheap 'n' cheerful cheese-fest in the vein of Evil Dead II.
Really unconvincing gore, dream sequences shot in negative image (a flick of a switch on the camera and, hey presto, cheap and nasty video effects!); irritating rapid editing of random imagery; awful sound (most notably, an overuse of lightning sound effects even when the weather is fine): in terms of technical proficency, The House That Screamed is a disaster.
Fat ghost girl sex; a deadly plastic doll; the Grim Reaper playing Knock Down Ginger: in terms of actual content, The House That Screamed is pitiful.
Very occasionally, the Polonias manage an effectively creepy shot, such as when writer Marty Beck (Bob Dennis) stands on his porch unaware that a ghostly figure is watching him from the window (reminded me a bit of Insidious here), but any genuine scares or creepy atmosphere seems to be down to luck more than judgement.
