Horror has always been more than just a genre to me. It wasn’t that way in my early life. Indian horror was about jump scares, grotesque visuals and cheap thrills. There was no depth, no story, no clarity. However, my current perspective is different. Now, it’s a mirror, a hauntingly honest one, reflecting the shadows I carry within myself. While others see ghosts, blood, demons, and curses on screen, I see conflict—the kind that tears at the soul, the kind that doesn’t always make sense. These stories have never been about the supernatural for me. They’re about survival—emotional, psychological, and sometimes even existential. Horror doesn’t scare me in the way it scares others. It speaks to me. It makes me feel seen.
I remember the first time I watched Ju-on, The Grudge. Its non-linear storytelling mirrors the disjointed way memories and fears often surface; just the way I tell my stories. The curse, on outside feels less like a supernatural entity, but it’s more like unresolved trauma. It’s passed from one person to another, feeding off their pain, growing stronger with every encounter. Watching it, I can’t help but think about the weight we carry from past experiences, how it seeps into our present and affects those around us. On similar lines, the cursed videotape of The Ring infected people, creeping into their lives and warping their reality. It wasn’t about Samara climbing out of the well or the TV screen; it was about inevitability. That suffocating feeling that no matter what you do, no matter how far you run, something—a fear, a truth, a memory—will always find you. That’s how anxiety feels, doesn’t it?
Although not as celebrated among critics for its lack of depth and haphazard handling, The Forest gets overlooked, much like the emotions it subtly taps into. It’s not a story about Aokigahara, but searching—for a lost sibling, for answers, for oneself. A sibling that existed only in your head A version of you that was kept protected, scared of being seen. The forest, with its eerie stillness and tangled roots, feels like a metaphor for the mind. It’s easy to get lost in there, to wander in circles, to find yourself confronting things you’d rather avoid. The protagonist’s journey into that space reminds me of my own attempts to navigate the darker corners of my psyche. And like the forest, those corners are unforgiving. They demand confrontation. They demand truth.
Horror, for me, is never about the jump scares or the gore. It’s about the characters, their struggles, and their resolve—or lack of it. It’s about the choices they make, the ones I see myself making if I were in their place. When I watch these films, I’m not just a passive observer. I’m in the story. I’m the one walking into the haunted house, the one unraveling the mystery, the one confronting the ghost. And in doing so, I’m confronting parts of myself.
There’s a reason I’m drawn to stories of possession, haunted houses, and curses. They’re all metaphors for the battles within. A house haunted by spirits is no different from a mind haunted by intrusive thoughts. A person possessed by a demon is no different from someone grappling with overwhelming emotions. And a curse? That’s just another name for the baggage we carry, the wounds that haven’t healed.
When I see a character survive, it’s empowering. It’s a reminder that no matter how dark things get, there’s a way through. But even when they don’t survive, even when the ghost wins or the curse claims another victim, there’s still value in the story. Because it’s honest. It doesn’t shy away from the fact that sometimes, we don’t win. Sometimes, the darkness is too much. And that’s okay. It’s okay to struggle. It’s okay to fall. What matters is that we try.
I’ve often wondered if my love for horror would fade if I ever resolved my own conflicts. If I woke up one day free of anxiety, free of self-doubt, would I still find solace in these stories? Would I still see myself in them? Or would they become just another genre, entertaining but not deeply resonant? I don’t know the answer. But I’d like to think that even then, even if my struggles were behind me, I’d still appreciate horror for what it is: a raw, unfiltered exploration of the human condition.
There’s a line in The Shining that always stays with me: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” It’s a chilling reminder of what happens when we’re consumed by one part of ourselves, when we neglect balance. Horror reminds me to seek that balance. It reminds me to face my fears, to acknowledge my struggles, and to keep going, even when the path is dark. Horror is my self-help book, the best one ever could.
