As the November chill seeps into the bones of Britain’s ancient borderlands, there’s no better time to unearth tales of the uncanny that blur the line between the earthly and the ethereal. Midwinter of the Spirit, the 2015 ITV miniseries adapted from Phil Rickman’s acclaimed Merrily Watkins novels, has slithered back into the spotlight—not as a dusty relic, but as a viral sensation clawing its way up Netflix’s UK Top 10 chart. Starring the formidable Anna Maxwell Martin in the lead role, this three-part supernatural thriller has ignited a frenzy of late-night binges and breathless social media confessions. Viewers are dubbing it “totally freaking unnerving,” a “brilliant spine-tingler,” and the “must-watch” antidote to cosy jumpers and mulled wine. With its blend of gritty police procedural and otherworldly dread, the series—now streaming fresh on Netflix after a decade in obscurity—feels eerily prescient, tapping into our collective unease with the unseen forces lurking in modern life. Whether you’re a devotee of Rickman’s folklore-infused mysteries or a newcomer drawn by the hype, this is the weekend’s unmissable descent into darkness.

At the heart of Midwinter of the Spirit beats the story of Merrily Watkins, a widowed vicar thrust into the shadowy realm of deliverance ministry—church-speak for exorcism—in the rural diocese of Hereford. Based on the second novel in Rickman’s 13-book Merrily Watkins series (which kicked off with The Wine of Angels in 1998), the adaptation captures the author’s signature fusion of pagan lore, ecclesiastical intrigue, and psychological horror. Rickman, a former BBC radio producer turned bestselling novelist, draws from the haunted history of the Welsh Marches, where ancient cathedrals stand sentinel against encroaching modernity. His Merrily is no fire-and-brimstone cleric; she’s a chain-smoking, single mother grappling with doubt, grief, and the skepticism of a secular age. The miniseries, penned by horror maestro Stephen Volk (Ghostwatch, The Awakening), condenses the 550-page tome into three taut 60-minute episodes, premiering on ITV Encore in September 2015 before a full ITV run. Though it garnered solid but subdued acclaim at the time—averaging 4.5 million viewers per episode—its 2025 Netflix resurgence has catapulted it to cult status, with streams surging 300% in the past week alone.

The plot unfurls like a frost-kissed fog over the River Wye, starting with a gruesome discovery that shatters the fragile peace of Ledwardine, a sleepy border village. A notorious Satanist, Paul Sayer, is found crucified in a derelict chapel, his body a macabre tableau of ritualistic mutilation. Enter DCI Annie Howe (Kate Dickie, channeling the steely resolve of Game of Thrones‘ Lysa Arryn), who bypasses protocol to consult Merrily, the diocese’s newly minted Deliverance Consultant. Merrily, played with raw, unraveling intensity by Maxwell Martin, is still raw from her husband’s fatal car crash, her faith frayed by the demands of raising teenage daughter Jane (the luminous Sally Messham). Reluctantly, she agrees to assist, viewing the killing through a spiritual lens where the profane meets the profane. As the investigation deepens, a second victim emerges: Denzil Joy, a dying local haunted by visions of malevolent entities, whose final breath seems to transfer an insidious presence straight to Merrily herself.

What follows is a labyrinthine unraveling of hidden histories and hidden horrors. Flashbacks to Hereford Cathedral’s medieval foundations reveal a “psychic engine” of accumulated prayers and perils, where the veil between worlds thins to transparency. Subplots snake through the lives of Merrily’s allies and adversaries: her prickly rapport with Canon Andrew Thorpe (a scheming Simon Trinder), the reclusive folk musician Lol Robinson (Nicholas Pinnock, bringing brooding vulnerability), and the gruff Welsh mentor Rev. Huw Owen (David Threlfall, Shameless‘ Frank Gallagher reimagined as a chain-smoking sage). Huw, scarred by decades of spiritual skirmishes, warns Merrily of the job’s toll: “It’s not about demons with horns; it’s about the darkness in us all.” As Jane teeters toward rebellion—dabbling in Wiccan whispers and village gossip—Merrily confronts poltergeist poltergeists in her vicarage, hallucinatory harbingers that blur madness and manifestation. The climax converges in a storm-lashed showdown at the cathedral, where personal demons collide with cosmic ones, forcing Merrily to wield prayer as a weapon in a battle that pits faith against fanaticism.

Director Richard Clark (Vera, Line of Duty) helms the production with a restraint that amplifies its unease, favoring long, lingering shots of fog-shrouded fields and echoing cloisters over cheap shocks. Cinematographer John Conroy bathes Herefordshire in a palette of bruised purples and icy blues, turning the Malvern Hills into a brooding character unto themselves. The score, a minimalist dirge of tolling bells and whispering winds by Debbie Wiseman, underscores the series’ folk-horror roots, evoking the slow-burn terror of The Wicker Man or Midsomer Murders gone gothic. Filming wrapped in early 2015 across actual Hereford locations—the imposing cathedral nave doubling as a nexus of the numinous—lending an authenticity that Rickman himself praised as “flexible and professional,” even if the script trimmed subplots to fit the runtime. Budgeted at a modest £3 million for the trio of episodes, it was ITV’s bid to pioneer genre-blending on its then-new Encore platform, a gamble that paid off in atmospheric dividends if not immediate awards buzz.

The cast is a masterstroke of British thespian firepower, with Maxwell Martin’s Merrily anchoring the maelstrom. Fresh from The Bletchley Circle and Mother’s Day, she imbues the role with a fierce fragility: chain-smoking in the pulpit one moment, cradling her daughter through night terrors the next. Her Merrily is a woman of the cloth unstitched at the seams—doubting her calling, her sanity, her survival—delivering monologues on spiritual entropy with the quiet devastation of a prayer unanswered. “Anna Maxwell Martin is so talented and totally brilliant,” raved one X user, echoing a chorus of posts that have propelled the series’ hashtag to trending status. Threlfall’s Huw is a revelation: gravel-voiced and world-weary, he consulted real exorcists (courtesy of Rickman) to nail the role’s blend of cynicism and conviction, his craggy face a map of midwinter scars. Messham’s Jane captures teenage tumult with wide-eyed defiance, her arc a poignant counterpoint to her mother’s unraveling.

Supporting players add layers of menace and pathos. Dickie’s Howe is all clipped efficiency masking marital fractures, her chemistry with Merrily sparking a rare female alliance in a male-dominated field. Pinnock’s Lol, a haunted troubadour with a guitar strung from guitar strings of guilt, provides emotional ballast, his tentative romance with Merrily a flicker of light in the gloom. Colm Meaney’s Saltash, a bell-ringing sexton with secrets darker than the tower he tends, brings Celtic gravitas, while Ania Marson’s Mrs. Joy evokes quiet desperation. Even bit parts—like the saturnine Paul Sayer (Gareth John)—pulse with portent, their fates foreshadowed in ritualistic runes scrawled across rain-slicked stones. The ensemble’s alchemy elevates Volk’s script, which Rickman noted was “messed around” for pacing but retained the novel’s “deft hand to the supernatural.”

Upon its 2015 debut, Midwinter of the Spirit elicited a tapestry of responses: The Telegraph hailed it as a “surprisingly faithful adaptation” and “exceptionally creepy without venturing beyond the credible,” awarding four stars for its grip on the genre’s fringes. The Guardian praised its “gripping” fusion of procedural and paranormal but quibbled at “heavy-handed messaging” and Satanic panic echoes, settling on three stars. IMDb users averaged 6.2/10, lauding the atmosphere (“perfect for a rainy autumn day”) while griping at contrived plotting (“shallow characters, bodged together without logic”). Book purists lamented deviations—Merrily’s neurotic edge amplified for telly, Lol’s arc truncated—but Rickman defended the changes as necessary for the small screen’s alchemy. It snagged a BAFTA Cymru nod for drama but faded amid Happy Valley‘s roar, relegated to BritBox obscurity.

Fast-forward to 2025, and the series is a phoenix in streaming drag. Added to Netflix UK in late October (with select regions following), it cracked the Top 10 within days, buoyed by algorithmic sorcery and word-of-mouth witchcraft. X (formerly Twitter) is ablaze: “Just binge-watched #MidwinteroftheSpirit—creepy but all good fun,” tweets one fan, while another confesses, “Fantastic drama, excellent gripping script—totally freaked out!” Posts laud its defense of sacred spaces (“one vast psychic engine”) and timeliness amid rising interest in spiritual wellness gone spectral. “A 10/10 crime thriller,” proclaims Good Housekeeping, spotlighting Maxwell Martin’s exorcist prowess. ELLE UK dubs it the “creepy British crime drama” slicing through the glut of Blue Lights and Trigger Point. Even skeptics concede its pull: “Gave the first episode 2 minutes… ended up watching all three in one sitting. Good 1970s drama out of its time.”

Thematically, Midwinter resonates deeper now, probing the porosity of belief in a post-pandemic world. Merrily’s tussle with “demons with horns” versus “the darkness in us all” mirrors our flirtations with the occult via TikTok tarot and true-crime podcasts. Rickman’s novels—13 strong, with Friends of the Dusk capping the arc—explore faith’s fault lines through folklore: ley lines humming with unrest, cathedrals as bulwarks against banality. The series distills this into a cautionary hymn: exorcism isn’t spectacle but soul surgery, demanding humility before the howling void. Jane’s arc, teetering between pagan allure and parental piety, underscores generational rifts, while Howe’s domestic discord grounds the supernatural in the all-too-human.

Production notes reveal a labor of love laced with serendipity. Volk, drawing from his Gothic playbook, wove in real Deliverance rites—consulting the Church of England’s shadowy guidelines—for verisimilitude that chills without camp. Threlfall’s prep included exorcist Q&As, yielding Huw’s mantra: “Prayer isn’t a spell; it’s a surrender.” Filmed in biting Welsh winds, the shoot captured Hereford’s raw poetry: the cathedral’s fan-vaulted ceilings swallowing whispers, Ledwardine’s thatched eaves dripping dread. Post-production tweaks—dialing back overt effects for subtle suggestion—paid off in a horror that’s insidious, not incendiary.

As Midwinter of the Spirit storms charts and synapses, it begs the question: why now? In an era of The Exorcist reboots and Midnight Mass meditations, its restraint feels revolutionary—a thriller that trusts viewers to supply the gooseflesh. For Rickman fans, it’s a gateway to the series’ sprawling saga; for Happy Valley acolytes (nodding to Siobhan Finneran’s uncredited influence via ensemble vibes), a detour into the divine dark. Binge it this weekend, lights low, tea steaming: let Merrily’s midwinter wake your own spirits. When the credits crawl and the cathedral bells toll in your ears, you’ll understand the buzz. It’s not just unnerving—it’s a revelation, proving that some hauntings improve with age.