“The job of the Fantasy-horror writer is to make you, for a little while, a child again”
Stephen King, Danse Macabre
For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed reading scary stories and watching frightening films. In the late 60’s my mother would take me with her when she went grocery shopping. The local store had a free-standing, revolving display of what we would today call mass-market paperbacks. I would search for the books on fantastic, supernatural events and creatures—the Loch Ness monster, spontaneous human combustion, Yeti, UFOs, demonic possession, ghosts, the Jersey Devil, and more. I don’t remember thinking that everything I read was true, but it sure was fun to read. Later in the 70’s when I earned some money, I would purchase books and magazines that featured fantastic, frightening short stories. In high school I discovered earlier magazines and literary compilations of imaginative, often horrifying stories about aliens, demons, monsters, and ghosts. Perhaps all that was just me wanting to break out of my oh-so-normal, respectable, and predictable suburban life.
Even so, I don’t think I am alone. Of course, not every adult enjoys a well-told scary story or movie. A couple of my children turn up their grown-up noses when my wife and I recommend a creepy movie. I’m not exactly sure why. But I have my suspicions. Taking a break from the reputable and reasonable adult world by reading or watching a horror story means adopting, for a time, a childlike disengagement. By “childlike” I don’t mean childish or foolish—but I suppose some adults would think that disengaging from the serious concerns of politics, economics, and one’s health would be irresponsible recklessness.
Kids are bent. They think around corners. But starting at roughly age eight, when childhood’s second great era begins, the kinks begin to straighten out, one by one. But boundaries of thought and vision begin to close down to a tunnel as we gear up to get along. At last, unable to grapple to any profit with Never-Never Land anymore, we may settle for the minor-league version available at the local disco. . . or for a trip to Disney World in February or March (King, Danse Macabre).
Okay. But Disney’s not a stranger to horror, especially the older Disney films and cartoons. The Skeleton Dance is a Silly Symphony, but it’s also more than a little eerie and unnerving, especially for children (and child-like adults who like to show it to their grandchildren every Halloween). The same is true for Fantasia.
At any rate, horror stories and flicks appeal to the more playful and inquisitive dimensions of our personalities. I think of Ray Bradbury’s almost perfect novel Something Wicked this Way Comes. We see the dark carnival arriving in town through the eyes of the 13-year-old friends Jim and Will, and we adults identify with them. A good part of the magic of that story is that we can see ourselves doing everything that they did to experience the thrill of the weirdly nightmarish atmosphere and people of Mr. Dark’s Pandemonium Carnival. Even Will’s old man, Mr. Halloway, in the end recovers his child-like imagination—but he probably never lost it even if the boys never noticed—snickering at the witch and rescuing Jim from death by singing, dancing, and laughing with the boys. Oh, and Disney produced the 1983 film. Those where the days.
Perhaps we ought to remember that elements of horror are found in some of oldest Christian children’s literature—fairy tales. The sanitized versions in recent Disney productions too often downplay or eliminate the dark, disturbing elements of these stories that delight children. Then there are all those fantastic, mischievous and dangerous beasts like trolls, talking animals, the Wendigo, ghosts, sprites, shape-shifters, dragons, griffins, and brownies, to name a few.
In the older versions we hardly ever get the cliched “and they lived happily ever after” ending that we typically expect in modern versions of “fairy stories.” That’s not to say that they end without resolving the tensions introduced in the narratives. But the resolution is often kind of horrifying even if it is satisfying. As Justin Lee has already pointed out, Tolkien calls it a eucatastrophic climax when justice is served. It’s worth quoting him.
Almost I would venture to assert that all complete fairy-stories must have it. At least I would say that Tragedy is the true form of Drama, its highest function; but the opposite is true of Fair-story. Since we do not appear to possess a word that expresses this opposite–I will call it Eucatastrophe. The eucatastrophic tale is the true form of fairy-tale, and its highest function.
The consolation of fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous “turn” . . . this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely well, is not essentially “escapist,” nor “fugitive.” In its fairy-tale—or otherworld—setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on to recur. It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.
It is the mark of a good fairy-story, of the higher or more complete kind, that however wild its events, however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that hears it, when the “turn” comes, a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears, as keen as that given by any form of literary art, and having a peculiar quality (“On Fairy Stories”).
This is why the witch-queen is thrown into a deep chasm in Snow White. And in Grimm’s Cinderella the stepsisters are wicked and not merely precocious. At the wedding of Cinderella and the Prince their eyes are plucked out by birds. That’s pretty horrible, but supremely satisfying.
Even Stephen King notes that every well-constructed horror story will leave the reader satisfied that some measure of justice has been meted out in the end.
I’ve tried to suggest throughout this book that the horror story, beneath its fangs and fright wig, is really as conservative as an Illinois Republican in a three-piece pinstriped suit; that its main purpose is to reaffirm the virtues of the norm by showing us what awful things happen to people who venture into taboo lands. Within the framework of most horror tales we find a moral code so strong it would make a Puritan smile. . . . The horror story most generally not only stands foursquare for the Ten Commandments, it blows them up to tabloid size. We have the comforting knowledge when the lights go down in the theater or when we open the book that the evildoers will amost certainly be punished, and measure will be returned for measure (Danse Macabre).
Now I suppose some clarifications are in order. Someone in the conversation will likely point out that I’ve been talking about a child’s perspective and, therefore, what we would call children’s literature—fairy tales and fantasy stories. Well, not exactly. Early on I suggested that frightening and creepy tales delight not just children but appeal to the lingering child-like disposition of grownups. Am I saying that all adults should enjoy horror stories? Do horror literature and films have a universal salutary effect of drawing out a deeper child-like wonder? Not necessarily.
Do we want to argue that artistic representations of horror are good for all readers and audiences? That reading about horrible creatures, portrayals of hideous acts, or watching a play or movie depicting monstrous cruelty is cathartic, cleansing the reader or viewer of . . . what? Our own depraved desires to perform similar acts? Does horror civilize people? Is horror always good for people?
I know folks that cannot read or watch horror literature. I can’t always discern the reasons behind their abstinence. But I respect their reticence. For some the horrible acts they have witnessed or that were perpetrated against them at some time in the past prevent them from appreciating whatever artistic skill a horror writer may demonstrate. Perhaps for some people their earlier child-like delight that I have been referring to has been effaced because of real-life horrific acts perpetrated against them or against their loved ones. If they avoid horror, should we say that they are missing out on experiences that would enrich and fill out their lives. I don’t think so.
Might horror have the opposite effect? A prurient interest, even addiction, to horror may inflame someone to commit similar violent acts. An argument might be mounted that a steady diet of some forms of literary and film horror, especially those films that glorify immoral acts of depravity such as murder, rape, cannibalism, torture, etc. will darken the soul. Are some people more susceptible to being corrupted by this kind of artistic horror? I don’t have to be a Pavolovian behaviorist to believe so. But does that mean that horror ought to be eschewed or even censored?
I believe that both the cathartic and Pavlovian attempts to explain horror are inadequate as universal apologetics for the genre. Seeing or reading about artistic representations of cruelty and horror are not necessarily cathartic, as if watching horror is always psychologically beneficial, purging the observer or the reader of the need to engage in comparable acts of evil. But on the other end of the psychological spectrum, there’s nothing to suggest that everyone who enjoys frightening stories will be led inexorably to mimic what they read or see in art. The cathartic interpretation of horror would want to see the genre as an advantageous and effective treatment against the problem of violence. But if horror sometimes triggers horrible behavior in some people, then it ought to be censored as dangerous. Both explanations go too far.
I’m not convinced by philosophical or sociological analyses of horror that seek to uncover some universal effect it has or ought to have on people. To appreciate the complexity of horror literature, I suggest paging through Michel Houellebecq’s H.P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life. In examining Lovecraft’s craft, Houellebecq gives explanations for the genre that upset respectable critics. For example, horror doesn’t give readers insight into life, it allows them, for a time, to hide from life, to find a refuge from whatever drudgery and/or real-life horrors they are presently experiencing. At one point, he suggests that Lovecraft’s horror appeals to degenerate populations that adore evil and death in all their various manifestations. Sometimes it seems as if the movie industry has monetized post-Christian culture’s adoration of evil and death.
Surely we can say that 20th and 21st century horror often glorifies immorality. For example, in the past I’ve dipped into the “American Horror Story” TV anthology. I believe they are on season 12. But I’ve never made it very far in any season because of the explicit, unnecessary sexual content. There are, of course, times when immoral sexual content works in a story. I’m not denying that. Context will determine how it fits into the narrative. There’s a lot of immorality in horror that fits in the story line. But in many modern horror films it often feels gratuitous and designed to titillate voyeurs. And I would never judge a Christian for refusing to read or watch acts of immorality that he or she was not able to justify in any given story. Each believer would have to make that determination for himself, and possibly for his family as well. Setting up guardrails does not make one a prude, a pietist, or a Puritan. There’s no way that I, as a Christian pastor, can recommend modern horror without a healthy warning to parishioners.
Can we say that the Western Christian literary tradition includes a good deal of horror? Yes, to some degree horror is always present in our literary canon. After all, the reality of death in all its horrible manifestations and in all of its unpredictably horrible consequences has been a constant theme in our stories. Death doesn’t have to be explicitly described in literature or graphically depicted in movies to elicit fear, shock, and terror. Without the horror of death, we would have very few engaging story lines. And there’s more than death, although it might be argued that whatever form horror takes—monsters, vampires, ghosts, exorcisms, zombies, bodily mutations, madness, psychotic violence, Skynet, paranormal hauntings, dystopian social landscapes, etc.—the fear of death is always a critical factor.
Is it too much to say that the proliferation of horror in our modern literature and movies expresses our post-Christian cultural anxieties? A culture obsessed with death is by definition pre- or post-Christian. Perhaps we should reflect on the Apostle’s evaluation of Jesus’ cultural agenda in the letter to the Hebrews:
. . . through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and deliver all those who through fear of death were subject to lifelong slavery (Heb. 2:14-15).
Consider Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. After her son is slaughtered by the Romans, Tamora complains:
See, lord and father, how we have performed
Our Roman rites: Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d
And entrail feed the sacred fire,
Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.
The story is filled with brutality, cannibalism, mutilation, torture, rape, and other horrors. This is the horror of human violence. There’s nothing supernatural here, just Roman culture’s pre-Christian underbelly exposed. That appears to be one of Shakespeare’s point.
Zach Parker’s question, “Should Christians Be Afraid of Horror” might be rephrased: Should Christians Fear Death? If the deep answer is no, then a great many modern horror stories and films might be dangerous for Christians. So that how horror appears in a Christian horror writer’s narrative should be substantially different than narratives that arise out of pre-Christian, alternate religious communities, or post-Christian secular cultures. We may not be enslaved by the fear of death, but that doesn’t mean death in its legion of manifestations is not frightening. The incarnate Jesus may be monstrous in some sense, but what the incarnation of the living God revealed about humanity was even more monstrous—a death culture of human violence, demonic possession, horrible illnesses, power hungry leaders, and more.
Another observation: that our horror genre has a political edge in the modern world is clear from the most popular and influential films. Consider The Ring (1998). It’s frightening on the face of it. But the subtext promises retribution for abused women. Or if not abused women, then women given powers unavailable to them in previous culturally acceptable stories. The Ring spawned a slew of horror movies with vindictive, malevolent female spirits. There are political reasons why these story lines work in our time and culture.
In the TV series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (1997) Buffy not only offered viewers inventive, interesting story lines, but also captured the imagination of internet bloggers and academic critics. Here was an intelligent, resourceful young woman courageously fighting evil. The story lines were complex and imaginative, often engaging academics to perform sophisticated cultural and textual analysis of the episodes. Although Buffy was not explicitly Christian, it’s not too difficult to discover Christian themes in the narratives.
Certainly, some artistic forms of horror arise in opposition to the civilizing tendencies of Christendom’s well-ordered polis, mocking society’s base-line culture of lawful, orderly, respectable behavior. The Gothic art that arises in the 18th century seems to accost the reader with darkness, decay, disorder, and outrageously abnormal people and creatures. Does it invite rebellion against the morals and manners of respectable society? It might. But for Christians it also might expose what happens when Christendom is no longer foundational for society.
Perhaps the rise of Gothic art is an understandable reaction to the rationalistic straight jacket of the Enlightenment and a cousin to the Romantic movement. So that whether in philosophical treatises or artistic novels, we see the fruit of Hamlet’s well-known quip:
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Even though Shakespeare’s plays were composed well before the rise of Enlightenment rationalism, there’s always been a recognition that our reason has limits and that our world is more sublime and disturbing than we are accustomed to admitting in respectable, intellectual and social circles.
Enough philosophical and cultural scrutinizing. Back to where I began. Is it enough to say that I enjoy reading scary stories and watching horror movies? Do I have to list my reasons for liking the genre? Perhaps it’s my inner child. I think so, but I don’t know for sure. Or must I be able to unpack whatever “worldview” is lurking underneath every horror film or story? I don’t think so. Horror stories are not for everyone. I like them. You don’t. We can still be friends.
Jeff Meyers is Senior Pastor of Providence Reformed Presbyterian Church in St. Louis.
“The job of the Fantasy-horror writer is to make you, for a little while, a child again”
Stephen King, Danse Macabre
For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed reading scary stories and watching frightening films. In the late 60’s my mother would take me with her when she went grocery shopping. The local store had a free-standing, revolving display of what we would today call mass-market paperbacks. I would search for the books on fantastic, supernatural events and creatures—the Loch Ness monster, spontaneous human combustion, Yeti, UFOs, demonic possession, ghosts, the Jersey Devil, and more. I don’t remember thinking that everything I read was true, but it sure was fun to read. Later in the 70’s when I earned some money, I would purchase books and magazines that featured fantastic, frightening short stories. In high school I discovered earlier magazines and literary compilations of imaginative, often horrifying stories about aliens, demons, monsters, and ghosts. Perhaps all that was just me wanting to break out of my oh-so-normal, respectable, and predictable suburban life.
Even so, I don’t think I am alone. Of course, not every adult enjoys a well-told scary story or movie. A couple of my children turn up their grown-up noses when my wife and I recommend a creepy movie. I’m not exactly sure why. But I have my suspicions. Taking a break from the reputable and reasonable adult world by reading or watching a horror story means adopting, for a time, a childlike disengagement. By “childlike” I don’t mean childish or foolish—but I suppose some adults would think that disengaging from the serious concerns of politics, economics, and one’s health would be irresponsible recklessness.
Kids are bent. They think around corners. But starting at roughly age eight, when childhood’s second great era begins, the kinks begin to straighten out, one by one. But boundaries of thought and vision begin to close down to a tunnel as we gear up to get along. At last, unable to grapple to any profit with Never-Never Land anymore, we may settle for the minor-league version available at the local disco. . . or for a trip to Disney World in February or March (King, Danse Macabre).
Okay. But Disney’s not a stranger to horror, especially the older Disney films and cartoons. The Skeleton Dance is a Silly Symphony, but it’s also more than a little eerie and unnerving, especially for children (and child-like adults who like to show it to their grandchildren every Halloween). The same is true for Fantasia.
At any rate, horror stories and flicks appeal to the more playful and inquisitive dimensions of our personalities. I think of Ray Bradbury’s almost perfect novel Something Wicked this Way Comes. We see the dark carnival arriving in town through the eyes of the 13-year-old friends Jim and Will, and we adults identify with them. A good part of the magic of that story is that we can see ourselves doing everything that they did to experience the thrill of the weirdly nightmarish atmosphere and people of Mr. Dark’s Pandemonium Carnival. Even Will’s old man, Mr. Halloway, in the end recovers his child-like imagination—but he probably never lost it even if the boys never noticed—snickering at the witch and rescuing Jim from death by singing, dancing, and laughing with the boys. Oh, and Disney produced the 1983 film. Those where the days.
Perhaps we ought to remember that elements of horror are found in some of oldest Christian children’s literature—fairy tales. The sanitized versions in recent Disney productions too often downplay or eliminate the dark, disturbing elements of these stories that delight children. Then there are all those fantastic, mischievous and dangerous beasts like trolls, talking animals, the Wendigo, ghosts, sprites, shape-shifters, dragons, griffins, and brownies, to name a few.
In the older versions we hardly ever get the cliched “and they lived happily ever after” ending that we typically expect in modern versions of “fairy stories.” That’s not to say that they end without resolving the tensions introduced in the narratives. But the resolution is often kind of horrifying even if it is satisfying. As Justin Lee has already pointed out, Tolkien calls it a eucatastrophic climax when justice is served. It's worth quoting him.
Almost I would venture to assert that all complete fairy-stories must have it. At least I would say that Tragedy is the true form of Drama, its highest function; but the opposite is true of Fair-story. Since we do not appear to possess a word that expresses this opposite–I will call it Eucatastrophe. The eucatastrophic tale is the true form of fairy-tale, and its highest function.
The consolation of fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous “turn” . . . this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely well, is not essentially “escapist,” nor “fugitive.” In its fairy-tale—or otherworld—setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on to recur. It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.
It is the mark of a good fairy-story, of the higher or more complete kind, that however wild its events, however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that hears it, when the “turn” comes, a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears, as keen as that given by any form of literary art, and having a peculiar quality (“On Fairy Stories”).
This is why the witch-queen is thrown into a deep chasm in Snow White. And in Grimm’s Cinderella the stepsisters are wicked and not merely precocious. At the wedding of Cinderella and the Prince their eyes are plucked out by birds. That’s pretty horrible, but supremely satisfying.
Even Stephen King notes that every well-constructed horror story will leave the reader satisfied that some measure of justice has been meted out in the end.
I’ve tried to suggest throughout this book that the horror story, beneath its fangs and fright wig, is really as conservative as an Illinois Republican in a three-piece pinstriped suit; that its main purpose is to reaffirm the virtues of the norm by showing us what awful things happen to people who venture into taboo lands. Within the framework of most horror tales we find a moral code so strong it would make a Puritan smile. . . . The horror story most generally not only stands foursquare for the Ten Commandments, it blows them up to tabloid size. We have the comforting knowledge when the lights go down in the theater or when we open the book that the evildoers will amost certainly be punished, and measure will be returned for measure (Danse Macabre).
Now I suppose some clarifications are in order. Someone in the conversation will likely point out that I’ve been talking about a child’s perspective and, therefore, what we would call children’s literature—fairy tales and fantasy stories. Well, not exactly. Early on I suggested that frightening and creepy tales delight not just children but appeal to the lingering child-like disposition of grownups. Am I saying that all adults should enjoy horror stories? Do horror literature and films have a universal salutary effect of drawing out a deeper child-like wonder? Not necessarily.
Do we want to argue that artistic representations of horror are good for all readers and audiences? That reading about horrible creatures, portrayals of hideous acts, or watching a play or movie depicting monstrous cruelty is cathartic, cleansing the reader or viewer of . . . what? Our own depraved desires to perform similar acts? Does horror civilize people? Is horror always good for people?
I know folks that cannot read or watch horror literature. I can’t always discern the reasons behind their abstinence. But I respect their reticence. For some the horrible acts they have witnessed or that were perpetrated against them at some time in the past prevent them from appreciating whatever artistic skill a horror writer may demonstrate. Perhaps for some people their earlier child-like delight that I have been referring to has been effaced because of real-life horrific acts perpetrated against them or against their loved ones. If they avoid horror, should we say that they are missing out on experiences that would enrich and fill out their lives. I don’t think so.
Might horror have the opposite effect? A prurient interest, even addiction, to horror may inflame someone to commit similar violent acts. An argument might be mounted that a steady diet of some forms of literary and film horror, especially those films that glorify immoral acts of depravity such as murder, rape, cannibalism, torture, etc. will darken the soul. Are some people more susceptible to being corrupted by this kind of artistic horror? I don’t have to be a Pavolovian behaviorist to believe so. But does that mean that horror ought to be eschewed or even censored?
I believe that both the cathartic and Pavlovian attempts to explain horror are inadequate as universal apologetics for the genre. Seeing or reading about artistic representations of cruelty and horror are not necessarily cathartic, as if watching horror is always psychologically beneficial, purging the observer or the reader of the need to engage in comparable acts of evil. But on the other end of the psychological spectrum, there’s nothing to suggest that everyone who enjoys frightening stories will be led inexorably to mimic what they read or see in art. The cathartic interpretation of horror would want to see the genre as an advantageous and effective treatment against the problem of violence. But if horror sometimes triggers horrible behavior in some people, then it ought to be censored as dangerous. Both explanations go too far.
I’m not convinced by philosophical or sociological analyses of horror that seek to uncover some universal effect it has or ought to have on people. To appreciate the complexity of horror literature, I suggest paging through Michel Houellebecq’s H.P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life. In examining Lovecraft’s craft, Houellebecq gives explanations for the genre that upset respectable critics. For example, horror doesn’t give readers insight into life, it allows them, for a time, to hide from life, to find a refuge from whatever drudgery and/or real-life horrors they are presently experiencing. At one point, he suggests that Lovecraft’s horror appeals to degenerate populations that adore evil and death in all their various manifestations. Sometimes it seems as if the movie industry has monetized post-Christian culture’s adoration of evil and death.
Surely we can say that 20th and 21st century horror often glorifies immorality. For example, in the past I’ve dipped into the “American Horror Story” TV anthology. I believe they are on season 12. But I’ve never made it very far in any season because of the explicit, unnecessary sexual content. There are, of course, times when immoral sexual content works in a story. I’m not denying that. Context will determine how it fits into the narrative. There’s a lot of immorality in horror that fits in the story line. But in many modern horror films it often feels gratuitous and designed to titillate voyeurs. And I would never judge a Christian for refusing to read or watch acts of immorality that he or she was not able to justify in any given story. Each believer would have to make that determination for himself, and possibly for his family as well. Setting up guardrails does not make one a prude, a pietist, or a Puritan. There’s no way that I, as a Christian pastor, can recommend modern horror without a healthy warning to parishioners.
Can we say that the Western Christian literary tradition includes a good deal of horror? Yes, to some degree horror is always present in our literary canon. After all, the reality of death in all its horrible manifestations and in all of its unpredictably horrible consequences has been a constant theme in our stories. Death doesn’t have to be explicitly described in literature or graphically depicted in movies to elicit fear, shock, and terror. Without the horror of death, we would have very few engaging story lines. And there’s more than death, although it might be argued that whatever form horror takes—monsters, vampires, ghosts, exorcisms, zombies, bodily mutations, madness, psychotic violence, Skynet, paranormal hauntings, dystopian social landscapes, etc.—the fear of death is always a critical factor.
Is it too much to say that the proliferation of horror in our modern literature and movies expresses our post-Christian cultural anxieties? A culture obsessed with death is by definition pre- or post-Christian. Perhaps we should reflect on the Apostle’s evaluation of Jesus’ cultural agenda in the letter to the Hebrews:
. . . through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and deliver all those who through fear of death were subject to lifelong slavery (Heb. 2:14-15).
Consider Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. After her son is slaughtered by the Romans, Tamora complains:
See, lord and father, how we have performed
Our Roman rites: Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d
And entrail feed the sacred fire,
Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.
The story is filled with brutality, cannibalism, mutilation, torture, rape, and other horrors. This is the horror of human violence. There’s nothing supernatural here, just Roman culture’s pre-Christian underbelly exposed. That appears to be one of Shakespeare’s point.
Zach Parker’s question, “Should Christians Be Afraid of Horror” might be rephrased: Should Christians Fear Death? If the deep answer is no, then a great many modern horror stories and films might be dangerous for Christians. So that how horror appears in a Christian horror writer’s narrative should be substantially different than narratives that arise out of pre-Christian, alternate religious communities, or post-Christian secular cultures. We may not be enslaved by the fear of death, but that doesn’t mean death in its legion of manifestations is not frightening. The incarnate Jesus may be monstrous in some sense, but what the incarnation of the living God revealed about humanity was even more monstrous—a death culture of human violence, demonic possession, horrible illnesses, power hungry leaders, and more.
Another observation: that our horror genre has a political edge in the modern world is clear from the most popular and influential films. Consider The Ring (1998). It’s frightening on the face of it. But the subtext promises retribution for abused women. Or if not abused women, then women given powers unavailable to them in previous culturally acceptable stories. The Ring spawned a slew of horror movies with vindictive, malevolent female spirits. There are political reasons why these story lines work in our time and culture.
In the TV series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (1997) Buffy not only offered viewers inventive, interesting story lines, but also captured the imagination of internet bloggers and academic critics. Here was an intelligent, resourceful young woman courageously fighting evil. The story lines were complex and imaginative, often engaging academics to perform sophisticated cultural and textual analysis of the episodes. Although Buffy was not explicitly Christian, it’s not too difficult to discover Christian themes in the narratives.
Certainly, some artistic forms of horror arise in opposition to the civilizing tendencies of Christendom’s well-ordered polis, mocking society’s base-line culture of lawful, orderly, respectable behavior. The Gothic art that arises in the 18th century seems to accost the reader with darkness, decay, disorder, and outrageously abnormal people and creatures. Does it invite rebellion against the morals and manners of respectable society? It might. But for Christians it also might expose what happens when Christendom is no longer foundational for society.
Perhaps the rise of Gothic art is an understandable reaction to the rationalistic straight jacket of the Enlightenment and a cousin to the Romantic movement. So that whether in philosophical treatises or artistic novels, we see the fruit of Hamlet’s well-known quip:
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Even though Shakespeare’s plays were composed well before the rise of Enlightenment rationalism, there’s always been a recognition that our reason has limits and that our world is more sublime and disturbing than we are accustomed to admitting in respectable, intellectual and social circles.
Enough philosophical and cultural scrutinizing. Back to where I began. Is it enough to say that I enjoy reading scary stories and watching horror movies? Do I have to list my reasons for liking the genre? Perhaps it’s my inner child. I think so, but I don’t know for sure. Or must I be able to unpack whatever “worldview” is lurking underneath every horror film or story? I don’t think so. Horror stories are not for everyone. I like them. You don’t. We can still be friends.
Jeff Meyers is Senior Pastor of Providence Reformed Presbyterian Church in St. Louis.
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