A couple years ago, I found myself on a serious Shirley Jackson kick. I devoured as many of her short stories and novels that I could find—including the elusive The Bird’s Nest—Ruth Franklin’s excellent biography A Rather Haunted Life, and of course, the movies. The Haunting circa 1963 was fabulous, to be sure, but my favorite of all was Mike Flanagan’s modern reimagining of The Haunting of Hill House. I remained on tenterhooks for the entirety of the series, but one particular scene at the end of episode five—if you know, you know—had me nearly climbing the walls with sheer terror.
One thing you should know: I am what is commonly referred to as a “scaredy cat.” And yet, I love horror. Despite my faint-hearted ways, I watched every single one of Mr. Flanagan’s terrifying series, and enjoy all types of spine-chilling movies, shows, and books. Shirley Jackson remains one of my favorite authors of all time, along with Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, and Edgar Allan Poe. There is something oddly comforting about those dark stories, something I come back to time and time again.
Looking at the YA shelves these days, it seems that I am far from the only one. I remember when, maybe just five years ago, horror was genre non grata in most publishing for young people. Sure, there were some standouts—but mostly, editors were still looking for the next great epic fantasy or contemporary page-turner. Today, you can’t swing a cursed knife stolen from the basement of an abandoned mansion without hitting a young adult horror novel. Being that I have written one or two of them myself recently, it begged the question: why have so many others suddenly found themselves on a horror kick, too?
It’s been said that horror gains popularity in troubled times because it provides us with a distraction from the terrors of the real world. This seems inarguable—our post-pandemic lives can be perilous to navigate, so it makes perfect sense that readers would gravitate toward escapism. Horror drags us away from expansive, existential fear and into acute terror, sharpened to a knife’s edge. For just a little while, we can sit under our blankets and worry about the monster under the bed instead of the troubles of our world. Horror can also offer us a way to work through our own fears through relatable characters experiencing similar ones in a fictional environment. Through the tragic story of Eleanor Vance at Hill House, readers are invited to explore what haunts our own psyches, and the pitfalls in our minds that threaten to lead us into dark places. I think it’s safe to say that young adults, many of whom were children or preteens through the COVID years, may be searching for ways to cope with and move past their fears. Strange as it may seem, horror can be an effective vehicle for both.
But there’s something beyond distraction and catharsis that horror gives us, too. The gift of control.
Shirley Jackson once famously said, “I delight in what I fear.” On its face the statement feels contradictory, but in my experience, comedy and horror are sisters with more in common than not. How many times have you screamed and then laughed after a jump scare? Or giggled with horror as something unspeakably awkward happened in a situational comedy? Among all genres, horror and comedy alone are required to elicit very specific emotions in their readers in order to be considered a success. For most people, finishing a horror novel without having had at least one or two hair-raising, heart-racing, jaw-dropping moments feels like a let-down, even if the rest of the book was satisfactorily entertaining. It’s the same thing as seeing a comedy and never getting more than a chuckle. We want the laugh. We want the fear, too.
And here’s the thing about those feelings: we control them. They were specifically requested, after all, and we’re pleased when they arrive. Laughter is almost universally welcomed—but fear? Not so much. For most of us, fear arrives on our doorstep like an uninvited guest and stays for far too long. We work so hard to control our fears, lest they control us. When we delve into horror, though, we are no longer pawns to panic and dread. Instead, those stories make fear into a game that every one of us knows how to play.
It’s why our hearts quicken when we read that the wind sounds like whispers…
Why we brace ourselves when the main character is alone in the house, and a storm is coming…
Why we beg the group not to split up to look for a way out…
Why, when the best friend finds the key to a forbidden door, we shout, “don’t go in there!” even though we know they’re going to.
Horror tropes, when delivered in unique and innovative ways, provide readers with an experience that simultaneously feels frightening and familiar. Compare it to enjoying a favorite roller coaster or haunted house ride, which remains unchanged year after year. We know when the drop is coming, we know when the monster is going to pop out of the shadows. But knowing what’s going to happen doesn’t take away from the thrill of the experience. In fact, it adds to it. This isn’t to say that horror is or should be predictable. On the contrary, one of the best horror tropes is that there should always be a surprise revelation, a big reveal, an unexpected twist of fate at the very end. We may not know what it is, but we know it’s coming—and that’s half the fun. In this way, we get to feel intense dread, suspense, and terror, but at the same time be in control of the experience through familiarity with the rules of the game. Just as we feel a rush of triumph after surviving the biggest roller coaster, we exalt in finishing the scariest books. It is an achievement, a victory against our own fears. And when it’s over, we are pleased to find that our beds are warm, our houses are quiet, and our doors are locked. For the moment, we have control over the monsters without—and the monsters within—and we can rest easy knowing that we are safe.
In the end, the current spate of YA horror teaches young people to do what we all should do in these strange times: have courage, stay together, and never underestimate the power of a warm blanket and a good book.
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