The battle between Good and Evil is as old as time, embedded in foundational beliefs across cultures and civilizations. Whether one subscribes to a religious perspective or a scientific one, the origin of existence is framed as a clash—be it the struggle between divine forces or the explosive genesis of the Big Bang. Meanwhile, countless proverbs remind us that light cannot exist without darkness. In recognizing this duality, we come to understand that fear, conflict and the unknown are intrinsic to the human experience.

Is this why we go to such lengths to craft cautionary tales, warning children of the dangers prowling in shadows? Is it why we crave stories that terrify us, with grotesque, malevolent creatures, populating nightmarish scenarios? I would go even further to suggest the horror genre—particularly in cinema—provides an unexpected yet powerful means of coping with today’s increasingly unstable and destabilising world. With economies teetering, housing crises escalating, climate disasters worsening and global conflicts on the rise, horror films may provide a much-needed psychological refuge in times of uncertainty.

Horror, as a narrative device, has its roots in the cautionary folktales passed down through generations across cultures. Long before written documentation, storytelling was humanity’s primary means of preserving wisdom, particularly the knowledge of survival. Ancient myths warned of supernatural beings and treacherous landscapes, while medieval folklore wove morality into grisly tales of misfortune.

In the first half of the 19th century, the Brothers Grimm laid the foundation for modern horror storytelling with tales that were far darker than their sanitized adaptations today. Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood are not merely children’s stories but coded survival guides, teaching vigilance, scepticism, and the ability to recognize and escape danger. In the last decade of the century, cinema emerged as a new storytelling medium, and French filmmaker Georges Méliès directed Le Manoir du Diable (The Devil’s Castle) in 1896, widely considered the first horror film. In its brief three-minute runtime, the film established key elements of the horror genre: the manifestation of evil, the struggle to overcome malevolent forces, and the ultimate triumph—or tragic failure—of the protagonist.

The horror genre has evolved significantly since then, diversifying into countless subgenres to cater to various psychological triggers. Whether one’s fears stem from supernatural entities, human depravity, ancient myths, or dystopian nightmares, horror cinema has a niche for everyone. As a lifelong horror fan, I once believed my aversion to certain films stemmed from an inability to handle fear. Only later did I realize it was not fear that unsettled me but rather excessive gore. This realization led me to explore psychological horror, where I discovered something unexpected—horror films, rather than exacerbating my anxiety, helped me manage it.

Calm after the storm

For years, I instinctively avoided anything that might further heighten my anxiety. Yet, when I began engaging with psychological thrillers, I noticed a peculiar sensation once the credits rolled—relief. What initially seemed counterintuitive soon became a habit. I found myself watching horror films after particularly stressful days, not to increase my distress but to alleviate it. The experience, while unsettling, left me with an undeniable sense of calm.

At first, I attributed this to catharsis—the idea that confronting fear in a controlled setting allows for emotional release. Anxiety often operates as a nebulous force, difficult to define and even harder to combat. Unlike a specific external threat, anxiety lurks in the background, shapeless and insidious, making it nearly impossible to rationalize or control. But when watching a horror film, fear takes a tangible form. There is a defined antagonist—a monster, a ghost, a serial killer—an identifiable threat that the protagonist (and by extension, the viewer) must navigate.

This process mirrors a fundamental principle in psychological therapy: gradual exposure to fear. The controlled environment of a horror film allows for immersion without danger. Unlike real-world anxieties, which are often vague and unmanageable, horror narratives present a structured framework for fear. When we identify with the protagonist, we engage in an internal dialogue—challenging the source of our fear, predicting the next move, and ultimately experiencing the resolution.

Intrigued by this paradox, I delved into research to better understand the psychological mechanisms at play. Dr. Coltan Scrivner, a behavioural scientist specializing in horror psychology, has conducted extensive studies on the subject. He explains that watching horror films induces an attentional shift, redirecting the brain’s focus toward immediate, fictionalized threats. This heightened sense of presence forces the viewer into the moment, reducing excessive worry and overthinking.

Additionally, horror films offer a unique combination of arousal and resolution. The body’s physiological response to fear—elevated heart rate, increased adrenaline and heightened alertness—is followed by a come-down effect. As the film reaches its conclusion, the body experiences a natural relaxation response due to positive neurochemical interactions, leaving the viewer in a calmer state than before. Dr. Scrivner suggests that this cyclical exposure to fear, followed by relief, can help individuals develop resilience, teaching the brain how to regulate stress responses more effectively.

Moreover, horror films provide a rare sense of control in a world that often feels uncontrollable. The viewer dictates the environment—choosing when, where and how to engage with the fear. One can adjust the volume, pause at will, or even turn on the lights, reinforcing a sense of agency. This ability to manage fear on one’s own terms contrasts sharply with the overwhelming helplessness that real-world crises often induce.

Horror in a terrifying world

This brings us to the larger question: how does this all connect to the overwhelming anxiety many of us are experiencing in response to current world events? As an anxious individual, I find uncertainty to be my greatest struggle. Each day brings new existential threats—economic instability, environmental destruction, geopolitical conflicts—all beyond my control. The constant barrage of distressing news can make this world feel like an inescapable horror film, except the villain remains hidden, and the resolution is always uncertain.

Unlike traditional horror narratives, real-world fears do not adhere to a structured plot. There is no guaranteed triumph over evil, no final girl standing victorious, no promise of survival. And yet, when I sit down to watch a horror film, my anxieties take on a different shape. The fear becomes externalized, personified in grotesque creatures and malevolent forces. For the duration of the film, I am allowed to feel afraid—but in a way that makes sense. Whether it’s the relentless supernatural terror of a haunted house, the creeping psychological dread of an unseen stalker, or the grotesque body horror of Evil Dead Rise, where loved ones become vessels of unimaginable horror, the fear is tangible, structured and ultimately escapable. I can immerse myself in fear without the suffocating uncertainty of real life.

And then, no matter how terrifying the journey is, ultimately the film ends. Even if evil prevails, even if the monster returns in the final frame, I emerge from the experience with a sense of closure. In that brief window of time, I have confronted terror, endured chaos and, in my own way, survived.

Horror films do not erase the horrors of reality, nor do they offer solutions to the world’s problems. But they do something equally powerful—they remind us that where there is fear, there is resilience. Where there is horror, there is hope. And sometimes, in a world that feels on the brink of collapse, that is enough.