The Appeal of the Grotesque in Dark Literature 

Slasher flicks. Cave diving. True crime. Dark romance. Why do humans chase experiences steeped in discomfort and even danger (and definitely controversy)? Not all, but some of us crave that tingle down our spines—the one right before the poltergeist materializes in a dark corner and screams. We want to be scared and scarred. It’s a form of thrill-seeking that uplifts us to emotional heights. And, maybe not-so-surprisingly, it has a psychological basis. 

In a 2020 study by Andersen et al. in Psychological Science, participants self-reported a “just right” peak of (fictional) fear that maximizes enjoyment. Not too much, not too little. Physiological findings supported their data. Measured heart rates reflected that arousal was satisfying to a point—then, it tips over into discomfort and pleasure plummets. 

Is it not unlike exercise, then? If your heart is barely pumping, you don’t grow; if it beats too fast, you are at risk of cardiac arrest. Everything is a balance, and our psychological scales are just another muscle. 

In an article aptly called “The Psychological Benefit of Scary Play” (Scrivner et al., 2021), horror experiences elicited three distinct reaction types: Adrenaline Junkies, White Knuclers, and Dark Copers. The first participated for immediate enjoyment, the second for personal growth, and the third group reported a bit of both. 

In my world, enjoyment is growth and growth is enjoyment. Trying to distinguish between the two as an artist is impossible. They are webs interwoven, and plucking their seams is how I do my best work. 

But maybe that’s just the Dark Coper in me. 

An article by Scrivner, Johnson, et al. in 2021 called “Pandemic Practice” put words to what women have known all along: “Threat simulation” like horror (and dark romance) serves as a rehearsal for actual catastrophe. Participants in the study with the “morbid curiosity” personality trait were better emotionally and physically equipped to handle disasters like COVID-19. Horror fandoms suffered less psychological distress during the pandemic. They had taught their nervous system to cope. 

In a world where it’s statistically likely that 1/4 women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime, dark romance that explores violence, degradation, and abuse is our emotional training ground. 

It’s also exposure therapy for those who have already experienced trauma. Face danger in doses in an environment you alone control. You can close the book. You choose not to. 

Yang & Zhang write in their piece “The Psychology Behind Why We Love (or Hate) Horror” that enjoyment of dark media requires 1) a safety frame (know you are safe), 2) a detachment frame (know it is fiction), and 3) a sense of personal control. If your brain and body know you are, logically, safe, then you are free to explore all your “what ifs” and “unknowns.” All of these studies were done on horror movies and media (gore, haunting, thriller), but the same sensations and concepts map onto dark romance. 

The study of why some humans are drawn to the dark side of storytelling is a new area of scientific research. But it’s not a new space for the philosophical. 

In the Poetics, Aristotle argued that tragedy produces catharsis (a purging or clarification) of negative emotions. 

“Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude… through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions.” (Poetics, Chapter VI)

“Objects which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity.” (Poetics, Chapter IV)

Edmund Burke wrote about “the sublime” as a feeling of facing something vast, threatening, or overwhelming—and the delight it produces within us. 

“Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling.” (Part I, Section VII)

“When danger or pain press too nearly, they are incapable of giving any delight, and are simply terrible; but at certain distances, and with certain modifications, they may be, and they are, delightful.” (Part I, Section VI)

Friedrich Nietzsche further asserted that we need both beauty and suffering to be truly “alive,” and to deprive ourselves of either one is emotional malnourishment. 

“Here, when the danger to his will is greatest, art approaches, as a saving sorceress, expert at healing. She alone knows how to turn these nauseous thoughts about the horror or absurdity of existence into notions with which one can live.” (The Birth of Tragedy, Section 7)

Noël Carroll and his Philosophy of Horror poses the most relevant question yet: “The paradox of horror… is that, though the experience of horror involves distress, people seek it out. The question is: how is this possible?” (Chapter 4). 

Paul Rozin, a psychologist with philosophical leanings, coined the term “benign masochism” to address this. It’s the pleasure humans seem to take from “negative coded” stimuli like spicy food, sad music, and rollercoaster dips. We are uniquely able to enjoy the knowledge that we are actually safe, despite the whole body activation and firing of frantic synapses. 

Is this a uniquely human phenomenon? Doubtful. But it is a privileged one. To experience the delight of “safe” terror requires you to be well-fed, housed, and of sound mind. No one who is already struggling to survive the night goes looking for a cheap thrill. 

One thing is for certain, though: As humans, the experience of horror unites us. We either live it, seek it, or fear it. It consumes us to the point it determines how we think, act, and love in a difficult world. Things keep getting worse. Who knows; maybe catharsis will save us.