Horror and the Writer

What makes a good horror story? What’s the correct formula? Three naive teens, a haunted house and a ouija board? Or is it an American summer camp, where kids go missing and something dark and dangerous moves in the woods?

The key to writing horror does not lie with which monster stalks the screen or paces the page. It is easy to get caught in a kind of “creative claustrophobia” (King, 2008) when writing horror in particular – hence why some authors fall into the trap of lathering their piece in typical tropes and stereotypes, practically yelling out ‘Ok, be scared now!’ However, if written correctly, anything can seem scary, whether that be a beloved childhood toy or your next door neighbours, who always smile and wave when you catch their eye –  as a society brought up on fear mongering and suspicions, we have learnt to fear those closest to us over the unfamiliar.

Anne Rice, a well-known author of gothic fiction, describes horror as the “confusion of the senses, confusion of the mind to overwhelming physical responses.” (Badley, 1996) And we can see that this is true – triggering the deep rooted fear of the unknown, the incomprehensible, is a sure way to give your audience the goosebumps and knot their shoulders with worry. Creating a physical threat isn’t always the best way to spook a unsuspecting innocent – playing with their emotions, toying with their mind and blurring reality can be a much more effective scare. And why wouldn’t it be? A ghost can be sent into the light, a demon can be exorcised, and a monster can always be killed. But when the threat lives in your mind, there is no escape.

However, it has to be said that the success of a piece of horror fiction doesn’t lie entirely with the writer – the reader must take some responsibility here. When it comes to horror, people tend to have very particular tastes. I mean, no one wants a horror story that flops – there’s nothing worse than waiting for a scare that just doesn’t come, and those cravings for tension and adrenaline just haven’t been satisfied. For example, stories such as “A Worse Mousetrap” and “Latex” are, to me, unsuccessful works. I’m not afraid, or anxious, I’m not watching my fingers shake as I attempt to turn the page – at best, a mere discomfort at the topics raised. But does this mean Michael A. Arnzen is unsuccessful? Or maybe just not to my taste? Some readers love these slightly more unusual works, reporting the same feelings of fear that are only unlocked in me by the frightening face of a clown. Perhaps that low level of discomfort I felt whilst reading, also known as “the creeps”, shows that Arnzen triumphed after all.

So when you next sit down with a pen and paper and start racking your brain for horror ideas, take a minute to think. What is really gonna push the “national phobic pressure points”? Get people’s skin crawling, and having them check under their beds at night? Depending on what you write, monsters won’t be the only thing they’re looking for under there.

Horror and Location

I can’t stand abandoned buildings. Whether it be an old, empty house or a long forgotten asylum, you wouldn’t catch me dead in one. At least, I hope not.

Setting is of huge importance when creating a horrific masterpiece – it is essential for generating the mood that’s going to give your audience the best fright you possibly can. “Atmosphere is created by anything that suggests an ominous state of affairs beyond what our senses perceive and our minds can fully comprehend.” (Ligotti, T.) Picking the right place for a demon to devour your protagonist could make or break your story – no one is going to be quaking in their boots if they’re transported to a field of flowers on a breezy summer’s day. Psychogeography is “the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organised or not, on the emotions and behaviour of individuals.” (Debord, G.) and is vital in creating a successful piece of horror fiction.

For me, the aspect of the unknown is what really stands my hairs on end. I have watched too many curious teens on screens explore haunted houses or old hospitals, and they never make it past the beginning credits. Walking into a place that is unfamiliar to you, where anything could be lurking just around the corner, or waiting for you in the shadows, fills me with terror. “Tales of haunted buildings are old as civilisation,” and there is always a sense of “unease evoked by industrial decay.” However, while countless horror stories begin with three teens strolling into an old warehouse and only one managing to escape the monsters inside, many more tales are set within our own homes.

One way of truly terrifying your audience is to create a story so close to home, so real, that the line between fiction and reality beings to blur. Realism in horror has become increasingly important over the years, with technological advances and special effects that have us jumping out of our seats. Realism is “the doctrine that all truth and beauty are to be attained by a humble and faithful study of nature, and not by substituting vague forms, bred by imagination on the mists of feeling, in place of definite, substantial reality.” (Eliot, G.) In more recent years, the number of horror films set in our homes has increased, therefore creating the mindset that nowhere is safe.

The 2014 horror film “Unfriended” is set on the main characters’ computer screens, through the app Skype, as they all sit in their rooms seemingly safe. Similarly, award winning films such as “The Conjuring”, and “The Woman in Black” are set in the safety of their own homes. This setting brings horror off of the page, out of the screen, and directly into our own lives – who’s to say you won’t be next? By placing horror in such familiar settings, even our most impossible fears suddenly become a very credible concern. Modern day horror is playing on the idea of the uncanny, the “class of terrifying [which] leads back to long known to us, once very familiar.” (Sandner, D.) What is more scary than lying in bed staring into the shadows, unsure of what could be staring back?

On second thought, maybe abandoned buildings aren’t so frightening after all.

Horror and Me

To get straight to the point, I am a nervous wreck.

I have always been scared of everything. The dark, monsters under the bed, the ocean, the inevitability of death – so much so that I would often think myself into panic attacks even though no physical threat was near. It surprised no one when I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder in 2015, and while I was relieved to know that I wasn’t just a big baby, I was still very confused.

Despite the perpetual feelings of fear, I had always loved the horror genre. I was an avid reader as a child, and my mother often confiscated books from me because in her eyes they were too scary for someone of my age – I used to borrow Point Horror books from school friends and read them in secret. I loved scary movies, the thrill of a jumpscare, and a sleepover wasn’t complete without a ghost story or two. Yes, I was left pretty scarred – I spent countless nights tossing and turning, unable to sleep incase my pretty china doll was plotting my murder. But I loved it – in the same way that I would go rock climbing and strap myself into roller coasters despite my fear of heights. For me, it’s the adrenaline, that natural high you can’t get any other way, and “there is little hope of curing the addiction to adrenaline.” (DeMarco, 2013)

Delving into the horror genre was a way of controlling my anxiety. Horror allowed me to be scared when I wanted to be, on my terms – it gave me a sense of control that my disorder had taken from me. So I would turn off the lights and curl up with a scary movie, alone, and I would practise walking downstairs at 2am in my dark, cold, victorian house, ignoring the urge to turn on the lights or run back up the stairs. And once I could do that, the things that made me anxious day to day seemed just a little bit less scary.

Chronic nightmares go hand in hand with panic disorders, which, when relating back to my love of horror, is where things really get interesting. I don’t remember a night where I haven’t suffered from a nightmare – I often wake mid panic attack, crying, or too disorientated to separate reality from the dream that just shook me. Nightmares usually bring to forefront what your real fears are, what dark and dangerous things you push into the subconscious during the day; they are an important psychological process. “[nightmares have] meaning not just in relation to trauma but also to the dreamer’s entire psychic continuity,” (Lansky, 1992).

And while I will always keep searching for ways to get a good night’s sleep I find it fascinating – a way to learn more about myself and how my mind really works. Through studying my nightmares I can see how, as I’ve grown up, my biggest fears have changed. No longer am I dreaming of wolves attacking me while I sleep – but more of isolation, insanity, traumas I thought I’d gotten over. My nightmares show me that it’s not monsters that truly scare me – but my own mind.

The Nature of Horror

We are all storytellers. Regardless of your English grades, no matter how much you read or write, we are all natural narrators. We gossip and share stories with whoever we can, be it our closest friends or people we’ve only just met. And one of the things we seem to love talking about the most? Horror.

Scary stories are a crucial part of growing up. What else are you meant to do at a sleepover when the clock strikes midnight and you’re buzzing on a sugar high? The lights go out, you gather in a circle, and hold your breath as your mind is filled with tales of Bloody Mary, killer clowns, and vengeful spirits that could very well be lurking outside your door. The primal fear of the unknown, and more importantly death, can be dated back “as far back as the Megalithic period and that common people have been the carriers and transformers of the tales.” (Zipes, 1992).

The fascination we have with the horror genre is one that has been under the microscope for a long time. It goes against the innate instincts of self-preservation and protection, seeking the pain we experience of fear and somehow enjoying it – it’s almost sadistic, how we have created a perverse relationship with this particular style of storytelling.

As Stephen King said, “We make up horrors to help us cope with the real one.” and I think he might be right.

Perhaps one of the reasons we are affected so deeply by this genre is that there seems to be no boundaries, nothing that it can’t touch. Horror manifests itself in fear of the unknown, the supernatural, the inevitability of death and pain – we can be just as traumatised by a film about ghosts and monsters as we can a film about natural disasters, kidnappers, the fragility of the human mind. We find comfort in the control we have as creators, knowing that what we see are works of fiction, fantasy – is it this detachment from reality that allows us to find enjoyment through the suffering of others? “[Horror fiction] shows us that the control we believe we have is purely illusory, and that every moment we teeter on chaos and oblivion.” (Barker, 1986).

Through the genre of horror, whether it be literature or film (see Dracula – Bram Stoker) we are able to explore darker, more dangerous places and push societal boundaries that we are unable to do in other ways. We owe this to authors such as Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft, who took a chance in writing tales that an audience had never experienced before (see The Tell-Tale Heart – Poe). The shocking and uncomfortable content paid off, and was able to kick start a genre that has become integral to our society. And while horror typically focuses in on physical threats such as ghouls and demons, a recent trend of psychological thrillers has come into play. With mental health awareness on the rise, horror fiction seems to be taking a turn towards fear of the mind. Works such as ‘Black Swan’ that make the audience question reality, doubt themselves, and use confusion to build fear of the self have become a huge success. This new angle at horror is, however, not too different from the rest – the death of the mind, of who you are, is very much in keeping with the fear of our own mortality and fragility, specifically of the mind. Horror is cleverly adapting to create fear around the idea of being left alone with your own mind.

“Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.” – Stephen King.

Referenced:

Zipes, J. Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical theories of Folk and Fairy Tales (New York: Routledge, 1992) pp.5

Barker, C. (1986) The Bare Bones: Introduction by Barker (London, 29 June)