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relational.

have you noticed that all horror stories are relational? what is my relationship to this home, to this body, to these people, to the unknown, the land, my past, or this job? will the coven accept me? or am i being prepared for ritual slaughter?

horror stories tell our truths and reveal our fears, even as our fears become our truths in ordinary life. the best horror elevates the mundane into breathtaking operas with the highest possible stakes. we see how our daily motions dance the razor’s edge separating danger and safety. we are all just on the other side of tragedy until the plot is triggered, the monster awakens and the carnage begins.

and there’s always a monster. always something in the dark or hidden in plain sight. that’s the horror. in some stories, the downfall is optional. in others, it’s inevitable only if we continue exactly as we are. some will offer a warning; others attempt to map the exact turns leading out of the labyrinth.

good horror is perfect. that’s what’s so beautiful about it. each piece is precisely engineered to interlock and click shut, trapping us inside, or to fall apart in a single, swift motion so we can run for our lives. they say it’s a good idea to get hit in the face at least once, so you don’t live the rest of your life afraid of what it might feel like. you’d already know. horror invites us to what could be true so it doesn’t have to be.