Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman
The architecture common to
horror stories, whether novels, short stories, or movies, is
conducive to the evocation of fear. Although this statement may seem
something of a truism, it may be less obvious that it seems. What,
precisely, makes a building evoke fear? By using the Aristotelian
approach—that is, by analyzing mages of haunted buildings—we can
identify the exact mechanisms of this evocation.
Size matters.
Size matters. Large
spaces, especially when they appear labyrinthine, disorient us,
confuse us, frustrate us. When we're not sure where we are, we don't
know what places—what rooms, for example—are safe or in which
direction our escape lies. Therefore, our ability to fight or to take
flight is hampered. Spacious buildings of uncertain layout are
frightening because, well, they could be the death of us.
Probably the best-known
example of “size matters” is Stephen King's Overlook Hotel (The
Shining [1977]), the mansion
in his Rose Red,
or the house in the Spierig Brothers' 2018 movie Winchester.
(Full disclosure: the house in
Winchester
and the house in Craig R. Baxley's 2002 television miniseries Rose
Red, written by King,
were both inspired by the
Winchester Mystery Mansion in San Jose, California.)
Books
in print, including The
Shining; Shirley Jackson's
The Haunting of Hill
House (1959); and Horace
Walpole's The Castle of
Otranto (1764), an early
Gothic novel that, when it comes to haunted houses, was one of the
prototypes that started it all, are first-rate examples of the
principle that size matters.
Darkness
matters.
Darkness matters.
When it's dark, we can't see; we are blinded. We rely most heavily on
our ability to see. When we cannot see, we are handicapped; our
ability to observe, to conduct visual surveillance, to reconnoiter,
is impeded. What we can't see could be dangerous, even deadly. We
could be attacked. We could run into a wall or fall down stairs. We
could lose our way.
Many horror stories are
shot mostly in the dark, including Alejandro AmenĂ¡bar's 2001 film,
The Others;
Victor Zarcoff's 2016 movie, 13
Cameras; and Wes Craven's
1991 film, The People
Under the Stairs, to name
but a few.
Stephen
King's novel 'Salem's Lot
(1975), Dan Simmons's novel
Summer of Night
(1991), Bram Stoker's short
story, “The Judge's House” (1891), H. G. Wells's short story “The
Red Room” (1896) are excellent examples of printed works that take
place largely in the dark.
Isolation
matters.
Isolation
matters. When alone, we are cut off. There
are no emergency medical personnel, no firefighters, no police, no
military. We do not have access to stores, utilities, or repairers.
Our society is sophisticated and complex. None of us knows enough to
be entirely self-sufficient. We rely on experts. We're helpless
without them. When no one's home but us (and the monster), we're in a
whole world full of hurt. Here, King scores again with The
Shining.
Other stories in which out-of-the-way buildings evoke fear include
The
Hills Have Eyes (1977),
Psycho (1961),
Wrong
Turn (2003),
and The
Cabin in the Woods (2012).
For
in-print stories of horror in isolated settings, try Stephen King's
novel, The
Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon (1999)
or his Despeation
(1996),
James Rollins's novel Subterranean
(1999), and
Denise Lehane's novel Shutter
Island
(2003). Sir Winston Churchill's short story “Man
Overboard” (1899), H. G. Wells's short story “The Cone”
(1895), Edgar Allan Poe's short story “The
Masque of the Red Death” (1845), and Charles Dickens's short
story “The Signal-man” (1866) are superb examples of the isolated
horror story as well.
Neglect
matters.
Neglect
matters. If someone cannot (or will not) look after his or her
own home, he or she probably won't look after us, either, should we
need help. Neglectful people are usually careless people. Think about
that for a moment: careless people = people who care less; in
fact, they may not care at all. People who don't give a damn are not
survival assets; quite the contrary, their negligence could get us
killed.
Of course, a
building, especially a house, in a state of neglect, suggests a
negligent resident or owner. Do we really want to trust our lives to
such an individual. The answer is simple, and it isn't no; it's hell
no! The Buffy
the Vampire Slayer episode
“Out of Sight, Out of Mind”
(1997) is an example of what can happen as the result of neglect, as
is the movie Hide and
Seek (2005).
Neglect
also happens in Stephen King's novels Carrie
(1974) and in Bentley Little's
novel The Ignored
(1997).
Disrepair
matters.
Disrepair
matters. Disrepair may be
caused by neglect, but it goes well beyond the effects of inattention
and laziness. It suggests unsoundness verging upon collapse.
Symbolically, a building in a state of disrepair suggests madness. A
house in such a state implies that its resident or owner may also be
unsound, verging upon mental collapse. Certainly, that's the case in
Edgar Allan Poe's “The Fall of
the House of Usher” (1839) and a host of other haunted house
horror stories.
Location
matters.
Location
matters. We've already
mentioned how isolation can evoke feelings of helplessness. A house
on a hill can dwarf us. Looking up at something implies that we are
smaller (and lesser) than it, that we are inferior to it. That's why
judges and legislators sit on high, to impress us with their superior
status, to help us remember our place, our subordinate positions in
society. Elevation confers status and authority, weheras the lower
the station, the less importance and standing one has. The house in
Psycho
(1961) suggests its de facto
owner, Norman Bates's “mother,” rules the roost; Norman, her
caretaker, works for her, much of the time in the motel on the grounds below.
Personification
matters.
Personification
matters. Most of the
buildings we've considered are frightening, each in its own way. More
frightening than most—perhaps all—others, however, is the house
with a personality of its own. A house to which human attributes (in
the case of horror, horrible ones) have been assigned are more than
just creepy; they can think, feel, and, worst of all, accomplish
their will through action. They can injure, maim, or commit
premeditated murder. The house in The
Amityville Horror (2005), we
can tell by the “eyelike windows,” to borrow a phrase from Poe's
“The Fall of the House of Usher,”
indicate there's a twisted, maniacal madness to the place. It's a
house with a personality. It even has curb appeal. To
enter, though, is tantamount to suicide.
As
the opening paragraph of Shirley Jackson's The
Haunting of Hill House indicates,
her haunted house is also personified:
No
live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions
of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some,
to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills,
holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might
stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met
neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay
steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever
walked there, walked alone.
In
a later post (maybe the next one), we'll take a look at the interior
of buildings built to evoke fear.