Whispers in the Dark
Time and time again, darkness has been cast as the enemy. Something to flee from, something to dread. Fear lurks in the shadows, but within that void, something is stirring. Something is waiting to be found.
Horror has always been the “outsider” genre, standing apart from the mainstream genres of drama, romance, or comedy. It’s outside of the norm of storytelling that seeks to entertain or comfort, often meant to repulse, disturb, or shock. However, beneath all those bloodstains, lies a rich and layered medium that dares to confront suppressed emotions. Fear, grief, powerlessness, and obsession - these aren’t just dark themes, they’re mediums of expression.
What makes horror so compelling isn’t just the adrenaline; it’s how that fear is rendered. The point of a horror film isn’t to scare, it’s to show people something they can’t look away from. In Crimson Peak, Guillermo del Toro wraps ghost stories in velvet and haunted elegance. The mansion itself becomes a character, with its dark, narrow hallways and creeping shadows that blur the lines between life and death. In one haunting scene, Edith, the protagonist, encounters a ghost, its form barely distinguishable from the dark walls around, creating a sense of both danger and intimacy. The ghost, eerily blending with the dark interior, gives the audience an overwhelming sense that danger is always close, often lurking where it’s least expected, within what should feel familiar. Similarly, in A24’s Hereditary, silence and shadows are used to build a suffocating atmosphere. In Hereditary, a still shot lingers on a dark corner, where a growing silence festers. The absence of sound in these moments forces the viewer to fill the silence with their own fears, amplifying the terror. In one scene, after the tragic death of a family member, the camera lingers on the empty space where they once were, emphasizing absence and grief, turning the silence into a haunting presence. These movies don’t just terrify, they mesmerize. Through subtle imagery, they create an atmosphere that lingers long after the screen fades to black, making the horror not just an external force but an emotional, psychological experience that slowly pulls viewers into its unsettling world.
Gothic horror and psychological thrillers are masters of this duality. They don’t chase monsters down alleyways; they open doors inside minds. The grotesque becomes intimate. The uncanny becomes elegant. And in the stillness between heartbeats, the haunting turns inwards. These films and stories don’t just introduce external dangers, they challenge the very nature of the threat. The monsters aren’t always lurking in the shadows, and sometimes, the danger lies within someone familiar, or even within the mind itself. In these narratives, characters are forced to confront their own darkest impulses, fears, and desires. The twisted actions of a villain often reflect the internal struggles everyone faces: the impulse to harm, to obsess, to hide from truth. In these quiet, unsettling moments, the most terrifying thing isn’t always a stranger or an unknown force, but the possibility that the threat might come from someone close or, worse, from within oneself. In Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan, the protagonist’s descent into madness is depicted with hallucinatory detail, making her transformation both horrifying and visually stunning. The horror does not come from an outside figure. It rises from the unraveling of identity. Nina becomes her own worst enemy. As she pushes toward perfection, she is haunted by visions of herself, unable to separate ambition from destruction. The tension in Black Swan isn’t just about Nina’s external battles but the unraveling of her inner world, where the boundaries between self-doubt, obsession, and madness blur. Her transformation, physically and mentally, is symbolized by her haunting visions of herself, her perfect alter ego, that distort her reality, making the viewer question what is real.
This isn’t fear meant to be avoided but rather meant to be confronted. Horror holds up a mirror to the soul, exposing its vulnerability and the insecurities that linger uncomfortably within. It whispers sacred truths that are not meant to be heard aloud: beauty can be tragic, death is inevitable and madness always lingers near. By doing so, it softens the edges of those fears, making them familiar. And familiarity is something that is clutched close to the heart.
There’s something poetic about horror’s ability to take what’s usually hidden and drape it in cinematic brilliance. Through shadow, silence, score, and pure cinematography, artists reshape the grotesque into art. Ari Aster’s Midsommar is a bright, floral nightmare that subverts traditional horror visuals and reimagines brutality as choreography. The most disturbing moments are often the most beautifully composed, giving violence a surreal, dreamlike aesthetic. In the final scene, a violent ritual is framed with breathtaking symmetry and precision. The bright, almost heavenly daylight makes the horror of the scene feel all the more unsettling, as beauty and brutality collide in an intimate performance. And somewhere in that eerie composition, the audience begins to lean in, no longer flinching away but drawn toward the very thing they once feared. Because horror doesn’t just depict darkness, it elevates it. It gives it a voice, shape, and story, redefining the very concept of darkness.
Darkness is where the rawest truths are found. Sometimes, it’s where art is found. Horror reaches into the dark and returns with something hauntingly human. And that is the terrifying beauty of it.
Written by Isana Mehta, Photography: Hailey Rickman, Social Media: Zaara Hashmy, Styling: Deb Zhang