I've never quite understood why I insist on watching horror films when I know perfectly well that I'll probably regret the decision approximately twenty minutes later. I've always been terrified of them, and yet, somehow, they're among the films I enjoy watching the most. I love the suspense, the mystery, the anticipation of something terrible happening, even if that means spending half the evening hiding behind a cushion and questioning every little noise in my house afterwards. It's a rather inconvenient hobby, particularly for someone who would very much appreciate being able to walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night without wondering whether something might be waiting in the corridor.
And the worst part? I know exactly what I'm getting myself into. I've watched enough horror films to recognise when something terrible is about to happen. The music becomes suspiciously quiet, the camera starts following a character down an unnecessarily dark hallway, and someone inevitably decides to investigate a strange noise instead of doing the sensible thing and leaving immediately. At this point, I'm practically shouting instructions at the television, desperately trying to convince a fictional character to make better life choices, while knowing perfectly well that the entire situation has been carefully designed to frighten me.
May Baciquetto Executive Editor
Still, I keep watching. And judging by the enormous popularity of horror films, I'm certainly not the only person who enjoys voluntarily putting myself through an experience that my body seems to interpret as a genuine threat.
Which raises a rather interesting question: why?
Why do we willingly spend our evenings watching masked killers, haunted houses and terrifying creatures when we could just as easily watch something that wouldn't make us suspicious of our own bedroom afterwards? Why do people pay to enter haunted attractions, scream their way through the experience and then emerge laughing, already discussing whether they should do it again?
To find out, I spoke to Brazilian psychologist Débora Bento, who helped me understand why fear, an emotion that exists partly to protect us from danger, can sometimes become something we actively seek out. And as our conversation explored everything from adrenaline and fictional serial killers to the psychology behind our favourite horror genres, I began to realise that our relationship with fear is considerably more complicated than simply enjoying a good scare.
When Your Brain Forgets It's Just a Film
Imagine sitting comfortably on your sofa, watching a horror film. The main character is walking through a dark corridor, the soundtrack has become suspiciously quiet and there's a door at the end of the hallway that absolutely nobody should be opening. You recognise the familiar ingredients of an approaching jump scare, you know there's probably something hiding behind that door, and yet, when the inevitable happens, you jump as though the creature has somehow escaped the television and entered your living room.
I've experienced this more times than I care to admit, and what makes it particularly frustrating is that I usually know the jump scare is coming. Apparently, recognising the warning signs isn't quite enough to stop my body from reacting as though I'm the one being chased.
According to Débora, our bodies can respond to fear before we've had the opportunity to fully evaluate what's happening. We might experience a racing heartbeat, muscle tension or a sudden fright even when we're consciously aware that we're watching something fictional. From the perspective of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), she explains, the way we interpret a situation influences our emotional and physical responses, meaning that knowing something isn't real doesn't necessarily prevent us from reacting to it.
I find that rather fascinating, especially when you consider how much effort filmmakers put into creating those reactions. Everything from the lighting and music to the timing of a particular scene can influence how we interpret what's happening on screen. A perfectly ordinary corridor suddenly becomes terrifying because we've been encouraged to anticipate danger, and a simple creaking floorboard can make us considerably more nervous than it has any right to.
But the interesting part, Débora explains, is that “we're experiencing these emotions within an environment we recognise as safe. We might be genuinely frightened by what we're watching, but we also understand that the threat belongs to a fictional world. This combination allows us to experience intense emotions without necessarily facing the consequences of a real dangerous situation”.
The Sweet Spot Between Terror and Fun
Knowing that we're safe might explain why we can tolerate being frightened, but it doesn't entirely explain why some of us seem so enthusiastic about seeking out that feeling in the first place. After all, there are plenty of unpleasant experiences we know won't seriously harm us, and that doesn't necessarily mean we'd choose to repeat them for entertainment.
Débora believes that “one of the most important factors is our perception of safety and control. When we watch a horror film, we know that we're participating in an experience we can leave whenever we want. We might become emotionally invested in the characters, feel nervous about what's going to happen next and experience physical reactions to the tension, but we also know that we can switch off the television if things become too uncomfortable”.
Although, speaking from personal experience, switching off the television halfway through a horror film can sometimes be more frustrating than continuing to watch it. Particularly when you're already emotionally invested in finding out whether the main character is going to survive their latest series of questionable decisions.
Another interesting element is the relief that follows a frightening moment. Débora explains that “the physical activation associated with fear can sometimes be experienced as excitement, while the reduction in tension afterwards can contribute to making the experience enjoyable”. Think about the last time something genuinely frightened you during a film: perhaps you jumped, screamed or instinctively grabbed whoever was sitting next to you, only to start laughing a few seconds later when you realised what had happened. That sudden transition from tension to relief can become part of the entertainment itself.
Psychologists have even explored a concept known as benign masochism, which describes how people can find pleasure in experiences that initially feel unpleasant but are understood to be safe. It's one of the ideas that helps explain why people voluntarily eat extremely spicy food, ride rollercoasters or enjoy frightening entertainment. Apparently, we're perfectly capable of finding enjoyment in a little discomfort, provided we're confident that it won't result in anything genuinely terrible.
In a study published in Psychological Science in 2020, researchers examined the experiences of 110 visitors at a haunted attraction in Denmark. Participants wore heart-rate monitors while exploring the attraction, allowing researchers to investigate how their physical reactions related to the amount of fear and enjoyment they reported experiencing.
Interestingly, the results suggested that enjoyment didn't simply increase alongside fear. Instead, researchers found evidence of an optimal level of fear, a point at which the experience was frightening enough to be exciting without becoming overwhelmingly unpleasant.
Of course, that balance is different for everyone. My idea of an enjoyable scare might involve a mysterious figure appearing in the background of a scene, while someone else's idea of entertainment might be spending two hours watching increasingly elaborate fictional murders. Personally, I think there's something to be said for being able to sleep peacefully afterwards, but perhaps that's just me.
Does Loving Horror Make You a Terrible Person?
While researching our fascination with fear, I started thinking about another rather uncomfortable question? Horror films frequently involve violence, suffering and situations that would be absolutely horrifying if they happened in real life, yet we willingly watch them for entertainment. Depending on the film, we might spend two hours following a fictional murderer, investigating a series of disturbing disappearances or watching characters experience things that no reasonable person would ever wish upon someone else.
And somehow, we enjoy it.
Does that say something about our personalities? Are horror fans less empathetic, more aggressive or secretly fascinated by other people's suffering in a way that should concern us?
According to Débora, we should be very careful about making those assumptions.
She explains that “enjoying fictional stories involving violence doesn't necessarily indicate a lack of empathy or an aggressive personality. There's an important distinction between being interested in a narrative and approving of the behaviour represented within it. Someone might enjoy a horror film because of its suspense, mystery, atmosphere or complex characters without agreeing with anything those characters actually do”.
And I think that's a distinction worth remembering, particularly when discussing a genre that often explores some of the darkest aspects of human behaviour.
Débora also points out that horror enthusiasts don't necessarily share the same motivations. One person might enjoy the excitement of jump scares, while another might be fascinated by psychological tension or the opportunity to explore unsettling ideas through fiction. The genre itself doesn't provide enough information to determine someone's personality, emotional wellbeing or capacity for empathy.
As a psychologist, she considers it far more meaningful to understand someone's behaviour and motivations in real relationships than to attempt to define them through their entertainment preferences. How someone responds to fictional suffering doesn't necessarily tell us how they would respond to suffering in the real world.
Which is rather reassuring, considering how many people seem perfectly happy to spend their Friday evenings watching fictional serial killers chase innocent teenagers around abandoned buildings.
Enjoying those stories doesn't mean we'd ever want to encounter anything remotely similar ourselves. I might be fascinated by a well-written fictional murderer, but I'd be considerably less enthusiastic about meeting one while walking home from Tesco.
The Four Words That Make Everything Worse
If there's one thing capable of making a horror film considerably more frightening for me, it's discovering that the story might have some connection to reality. There's a very particular kind of discomfort that comes with settling down to watch something terrifying, only to be greeted by the words Based on true events. Suddenly, the reassuring thought that everything is fictional becomes slightly more complicated, and I find myself wondering exactly how much of what I'm about to watch actually happened.
Interestingly, Débora experiences something similar.
When I ask whether there's a particular horror film that has genuinely frightened her, she explains that several films from different subgenres have managed to scare her over the years. However, those inspired by real events affect her differently, whether they involve supernatural elements or more realistic forms of horror.
Knowing that a story has some connection to real events changes the way she interprets the threat. Even when she's fully aware that the events have been adapted or dramatised for entertainment, the possibility that something similar might genuinely have happened makes the situation feel more plausible and emotionally intense.
I think there's something particularly unsettling about that distinction. A supernatural creature created entirely for a film can be terrifying, but there's often a certain comfort in recognising that it belongs to an imaginary world. A story inspired by real events removes some of that emotional distance because it encourages us to consider the possibility that someone, somewhere, might actually have experienced something similar.
Of course, the phrase based on true events doesn't guarantee historical accuracy. Films frequently alter details, exaggerate situations or introduce entirely fictional elements to make a story more entertaining. But as Débora's explanation suggests, the way we interpret the possibility of danger can be just as important as the reality behind it.
Sometimes, simply believing that a threat might be possible is enough to make it considerably more frightening.
And I suppose that's one of the things horror does particularly well. It takes situations that might seem ordinary or impossible under normal circumstances and encourages us to imagine them differently. A dark corridor becomes threatening, an unfamiliar noise becomes suspicious, and an innocent object sitting in the corner of a room suddenly deserves far more attention than it probably should.
Which might explain why watching a horror film can occasionally make the journey from my bedroom to the kitchen feel like an unnecessarily ambitious expedition.
If Fear Were a Film Character...
As our conversation turns towards the way fear influences our thoughts and decisions, I decide to ask Débora something a little less conventional. If fear were a character in a film, would it be the villain, the protagonist or the director controlling the entire story?
I rather like this question because, depending on our experiences, fear can seem to play all three roles. It might become the obstacle preventing us from doing something important, the central emotion shaping our experiences or the invisible force influencing the decisions we make.
Débora, however, believes fear would be the director.
As she describes, “fear can influence an entire narrative without necessarily appearing directly. It changes how we interpret situations, directs our attention towards potential threats and encourages us to anticipate events that haven't actually happened”.
Consider how easily an unfamiliar noise can transform an otherwise ordinary evening. Under normal circumstances, we might barely notice it, but after watching a particularly frightening film, that same sound suddenly becomes much more suspicious. We start paying attention to details we would ordinarily ignore, imagining possible explanations and sometimes convincing ourselves that something terrible might be about to happen.
Fear hasn't necessarily changed what's happening around us, but it has influenced how we're interpreting it.
What I particularly appreciate about Débora's answer, however, is the reminder that fear doesn't have to make every decision for us. Even when we're frightened, we can still choose how to respond, and experiencing fear doesn't automatically mean we're incapable of doing something important.
As she explains, courage doesn't necessarily mean the absence of fear, but rather the possibility of continuing despite its presence.
And there's something genuinely comforting about that thought, particularly when we consider how often fear is portrayed as something negative. We tend to associate it with vulnerability, hesitation or weakness, but fear is also a natural part of being human. It can alert us to potential danger, influence our decisions and remind us to pay attention to the world around us.
Perhaps the important thing isn't eliminating fear altogether, but understanding when it deserves our attention and when we can safely allow ourselves to enjoy the experience.
Even if that experience happens to involve a fictional murderer with an alarming collection of kitchen knives.
One Last Scare
Before speaking to Débora, I hadn't really considered how much psychology was involved in something as ordinary as choosing a film to watch on a Friday evening. I'd always assumed my fascination with horror was simply one of those slightly contradictory things about myself: I was terrified of scary films, but I loved them anyway. And while that hasn't particularly changed, I now have a much better understanding of why those two feelings aren't necessarily as incompatible as they initially seem.
What I find most interesting is that enjoying horror doesn't require us to stop being afraid. In fact, fear is often an essential part of the experience. We become invested in the characters, anticipate what might happen next and allow ourselves to feel emotions that, under different circumstances, we'd probably prefer to avoid. But because we're experiencing them within an environment we recognise as safe, those same sensations can become exciting, entertaining and occasionally even enjoyable.
And perhaps that's why horror continues to fascinate us. It offers an opportunity to explore emotions that are normally associated with danger while maintaining a certain distance from the consequences. We can imagine ourselves facing impossible situations, wonder whether we'd make better decisions than the characters and experience the relief of surviving a terrifying story without ever having to leave the comfort of our sofas.
Will any of this stop me from watching horror films? Absolutely not. I'll continue covering my face during particularly frightening scenes, complaining about characters who insist on investigating strange noises and occasionally questioning why I thought watching something terrifying before bedtime was a sensible decision. And once the credits roll, I'll probably do exactly what I've always done: tell myself that perhaps I should watch something a little less frightening next time, before inevitably finding another horror film that looks far too interesting to ignore.
After all, if there's one thing I've learned from exploring our fascination with fear, it's that being frightened and enjoying ourselves aren't always mutually exclusive.
Although I would still very much appreciate it if the strange noises in my house could wait until morning.
Débora Bento Psychologist
Research references
Andersen, M. M., et al. (2020). Playing With Fear: A Field Study in Recreational Horror. Psychological Science, 31(12), 1497–1510. https://doi.org/10.1177/0956797620972116
Interview with psychologist Débora Bento.
