Ever since its inception with Horace Walpole’s novel The Castle of Otranto (1764), a delirious mixture of violent death and familial conspiracy, gothic literature has been a restless cultural form, constantly mutating and assuming new guises but always exploring the darker side of life. Sometimes, its fashions are those of the historical moment. Sometimes they are initiated by a book enjoying unprecedented commercial success.
One of these was Thomas Harris’s The Silence of the Lambs (1988). After the film adaptation scooped five Oscars in 1991, the deviant genius became the villain of choice for gothic films and novels. For a time, the violent merging of the crime thriller with the “body horror” of 1980s cinema ensured that the genre was dominated by such characters. Usually (though not always) men with high IQs, elevated artistic taste and ingenious ways of torturing and killing their fellow human beings, Hannibal Lecter and his ilk became modern icons.
In the wake of such influences, crime novels (and films) got bloodier and horror novels grew longer. John Connolly’s first novel, EveryDeadThing (1999), for example, spent 470 pages documenting the murderous activities of a serial killer who mutilated his victims in the style of Renaissance anatomical drawings.
In recent years however, there has been a reaction against these excesses. So-called “quiet horror” has become increasingly popular on both sides of the Atlantic. Perhaps taking its name from a 1965 collection of short stories by Stanley Ellin, which was literally called “quiet horror”, this is a genre that prizes suspense and subtlety over graphic bodily violence.
The novelist Selena Chambers characterises quiet horror as exploring “the unexplained, the suppressed, the supernal [otherworldly], the material, the cosmic, and the secular … everything we cannot see, or verbalise and fail to feel concretely”. As she implies, suggestion is crucial.
Readers need to be patient and imaginative, sensitive to the nuances and implications of language and willing to respond to spooky ambiguities rather than being startled by jump scares or “gross out” imagery.
Slasher movies usually treat their characters as no more than fodder for the next brutal killing. Quiet horror, by contrast, takes character development far more seriously and imbues its stories with greater psychological depth. This in turn can enhance readers’ involvement. Put simply, those who dislike “splatter fiction” are more likely to care what happens to a well-rounded, sympathetic character than a stereotypical US teenager about to be put under a steam hammer.
Women and quiet horror
Female novelists have been at the forefront of this style of writing since the Victorian period. Elizabeth Gaskell’s tales, including The Old Nurse’s Story (1852), a chilling tale of a family curse, are foundational works.
A long line of women writers have explored how the familiar, the domestic, the marital and the homely can be imbued with subtle terrors, from loneliness and isolation to paranoia, alienation, captivity and psychological trauma.
The haunted house does not need to contain a typical ghost. From Elizabeth Bowen’s The Demon Lover (1945) to Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House (1959), to Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger (2009) and beyond, the complex and fraught relationships between a dwelling and its occupants have frequently engaged women writers’ imaginations.
The continuing success of Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black (1983) in its literary, theatrical and cinematic incarnations has helped ensure that quiet horror, particularly tales which recall the golden age of the ghost story a century or so ago, are once again much in vogue. This can be seen in the bestselling novels of Michelle Paver, such as Dark Matter (2010) and in anthologies such as The Haunting Season (2021).
At the same time, readers are increasingly rediscovering forgotten practitioners of the genre. One such figure is Elizabeth Walter (1927-2006). As a writer (and the editor of Collins Crime Club for 30 years from the mid-1960s) Walter recoiled from sadistic violence, cardboard characterisation and haphazard plotting.
After five collections of stories, beginning with Snowfall and Other Chilling Events (1965), she retired from writing supernatural fiction in the mid-1970s as the traits she didn’t like were becoming dominant within Anglo-American gothic. Many of her stories are set in the border country between England and Wales and draw upon folklore and a sensitivity to landscape to create creepily unnerving works such as The Sin Eater (1967) and Telling the Bees (1975).
I edited a collection of Walter’s writing titled Let a Sleeping Witch Lie (2024). Spanning the ten years from Snowfall to her final collection, Dead Woman and Other Haunting Experiences (1975), the stories within anticipate some elements of Phil Rickman’s Merrily Watkins novels which also involve Welsh border settings, supernatural elements, and police procedural, though they lack Rickman’s religious dimension.
There is no sense of providence at work in Walter’s borderlands, only ancient and mysterious menace. Marriages tend to be unhappy, families harbour terrible secrets, and the old ways continue to overshadow the present. Fifty years since her final collection, Walter’s work might be more relevant than ever before.
Quiet horror has never really been away, but it seems to finding a new audience, one which both looks to its past and relishes its present.
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Nick Freeman does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
