Unquiet – Why do we Write and Read Ghost Stories?

On the nature of fear in literature and the role disquiet plays in a story. Please note, the original blog was first published on Blog Z.

I never set out to write a ghost story. I didn’t consider when I started writing I Belong to the Earth that it would contain scenes that were genuinely scary. I don’t find typical “scary” stories frightening myself, so if I’d thought about it, I would have felt that I was unqualified to write something that induced fear in other people.

And yet. 

I’ve had a lot of feedback to say that much of the paranormal stuff I write is in fact quite frightening, or at least disturbing or unsettling. It’s led me to question why exactly we need (not just want) to tell stories, one of the aims of which is to scare others. It’s hardly a new trend. There are ghost stories, vampire stories, tales of demons and possession, and tales of lycanthropy and witches that date back to ancient Egypt, appear in the Bible, or can be found in classical literature from ancient Rome or Greece. The Aborigines have their own culture of ghost stories. So do the Chinese, the Japanese, and pretty much all of the remaining tribal cultures in Africa.  When you consider their existence, across cultures where there has been little contact until relatively recently, it’s clear that “scary” stories are a deeply ingrained part of the human psyche.

My theory is that the safe introduction and management of fear, with mastery of fear as its ultimate goal, evolved right along with the earliest method of storytelling. We humans are hard-wired to learn better via story—think of the vast bodies of myth, fairy tales (especially the non-sanitized versions), and lore that extend back through time behind us. While stories (books) are now largely about entertainment, once they were primarily about teaching. Learning from one another’s experiences. And fear is useful. It engages the fight or flight system as adrenaline spikes the blood stream and the heart beats faster. A story told by one Cro-Magnon to another about escaping an animal attack is a learning experience tagged with fear. That’s a powerful combination and not one that’s likely to be forgotten.

What about modern ghost stories? What purpose do they serve? The point of them, after all, is to frighten you with something intangible, inexplicable. Something that cannot be held off with physical force or that you can run away from. This is beyond the scope of a simple learning tale and still we keep coming back for a dose of fear. There is an argument that suggests there is an endorphin-based, feel-good factor at the relief of a “scary” story ending. Whether the monster is defeated or triumphs, you experience a delicious, almost forbidden chill without really risking anything because it’s “just a story.” There may be some truth to this. Personally, I think the truth is something a bit more complicated.

Humans are reason makers. Our brains are basically modelling systems; we take input from our five senses and create a mental image of what stimulated that input. Usually it’s something we recognise. Everything is safe. Shields down. But what about when we can’t make sense of what our senses are telling us? Do we people the world with half-glimpsed, supernatural creatures, possibly stalking us with ill intent? Actually it would make sense to do that. Once upon a time, when we were still prey, the rustling of the grass might have been the wind or it might have indicated the presence of a predator. Our ancestors would have lost nothing in believing that there was a tiger crouching in wait when there wasn’t. The assumption that every strange noise was just imagination or the wind would have been deadly!

Modern scary stories, modern ghosts and ghouls, allow us to confront a different set of predators. Intangible, without strict physical form, but no less real than the stalking tiger. In a ghost story, the ghost often represents part of the protagonist’s nature that has been repressed—Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger is an excellent—and truly chilling—example of this. The ghost may also represent another stage in the protagonist’s life as opposed to the present: perhaps what and who a protagonist will turn into if they don’t make an effort to change their current trajectory. Perhaps it’s a tragic, nostalgic visitation representing a time the protagonist wants to get back—there’s an element of this in Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black. And then there are ghosts that live out repeated patterns of behaviour until the protagonist succeeds or fails in righting the wrong that set that pattern. In ghost stories we face, and ideally defeat, the id: the parts of ourselves that are destructive and dangerous.

All of these mental chimeras can also represent those external things we are truly afraid will consume us today. In their simplest form, ghost stories allow us to tackle the subject of death from a cosy armchair. In the West, it is very unusual nowadays to have any regular contact with dead bodies, unless you work in healthcare, the police force or the military. Where it was once usual for a family member to die at home, now we’re removed from the process. It’s deepened our sense of the unknown, which in turn has deepened our fear of death.

Scary stories may also represent our fear of being swallowed by “the system,” of disease, of loss of personal freedom, of current world events…the list is a long one. Ultimately, ghost stories allow us to confront fear, helplessness, and the unknown in a safe way. By empathising and striving with the protagonist towards a resolution, perhaps we are able to step out of ourselves, are able to look at the formless fears that haunt us, and see a way of combating and triumphing against them.

Whether you read them for entertainment, for that illicit rush of fear, or as analysis of the human mind, ghost stories are here to stay.

I think that’s a good thing.