Oh, horror movies. How I adore/hate you. With your sharp-fanged monsters, and your copious amounts of fake blood, and your unnecessary nudity, and your sequels and your sequels to sequels being released so quick that I just can’t keep track which version of Final Destination or Scream we’re up to anymore.

I spent the other evening re-watching a horror film I had first watched in high school, and hated. But I was on one of those Wikipedia sprees where I was reading one entry that linked to another entry that linked to another, and I ended up on the Wiki page for the film. And because I’m a little bit of a masochist, I rented it and watched it. And I still hated it. The acting was terrible, the writing just sucked, and as the credits rolled I was left wondering why I had just wasted two hours of my life that I would never get back. But, being the optimist I am and needing to find the good in everything, I realized: your standard horror movie fare can provide a really good lesson in constructing a compelling story. Even if you don’t write horror.

The whole point of writing a story (besides your own personal satisfaction) is to in some way affect the reader. To get a reaction out of him. So what better genre to learn from than horror, which is decidedly the most baldfaced in its attempts to get a reaction out of the reader. I mean, really, most taglines for horror films are usually some variant of “So scary you’ll wish you were DEAD!” or “You’ll wet your pants!” And for the most part, the films deliver. People get scared. Reaction = caused. Mission = accomplished. So what can the average schmoe learn about fiction from crappy horror movies?

The Significance of Props

In horror movies, we can find fear in things that, in the real world, have never seemed scary before. Suddenly, the jazz standard “Jeepers Creepers” signals impending doom in Jeepers Creepers, as do VHS tapes in The Ring, as does the color red in The Sixth Sense. Horror writers don’t have to rely solely on sharp objects and sudden movements to fill you with fear. By attaching significant meaning to certain objects, they can slyly give you cues: “OK, be scared now!” Fearful music playing in the background? Sure, scary. A pop remix of “Jeepers Creepers” comes on the radio? Oh shit, we’re all gonna die.

Establishing Pathos

Why should we care that the fishhook-wielding psychopath is breathing down Julie James’ neck in I Know What You Did Last Summer and she doesn’t even realize? Well, because we think Julie is an all right kind of gal, and it would sure make us sorry to see her head liberated from her body. Maybe we even see some of ourselves in Julie, and seeing a partial version of ourselves being whacked onscreen is not something we’re particularly crazy about.

In order for your story to have any impact at all, your reader needs to be invested in it. The easiest way to do this is to create characters that your reader will care about. Your protagonist doesn’t need to be a good person. She doesn’t even need to be particularly likable. What she does need to be is interesting and identifiable. Grace Stewart is a little too fussy and shrieky in The Others but you can relate to the love and compassion she clearly has for her children. Mike Williams in The Blair Witch Project is a little bit of a dick, but you can relate to his fear and frustration. You’d probably be as much of a dick if you were in his shoes. Creating a character that the reader will care about is what will pull the reader through your story, and what makes the ending, when the villain is finally dispatched (or so we think!) and everything seems to be back to normal again, so enormously satisfying.

Character Motivation

Why is Darry crawling into that rat-infested pipeline coming out of the ground in Jeepers Creepers? The one that, should he lose his footing and fall, will deposit him into an underground lair with no escape? The one Darry just saw the villain use to dump blood-stained objects that look suspiciously like bodies? Oh, he heard murmuring coming from below and he thinks it might be someone in need of his help, does he? So why doesn’t he just call the cops instead?

Obviously because watching Darry crawl into that dark, dank space by himself is far scarier than a police unit with flashlights, walkie talkies, and ladders. But even so, your reader is not going to buy it when your otherwise intelligent protagonists start making some shitbrained decisions. Nothing will pull your readers or your viewers out of a story quicker than an obvious ploy to get a rise out of them. You’ve got to follow some modicum of internal logic here. Darry’s sister Trish castigates him for being so dumb, and Darry himself acknowledges that crawling down that pipeline is a pretty stupid thing to do. But, he says, helping whoever is in need is just too important to wait. And the villain might come back any minute. So it’s now or never. So yeah, it’s a dumb decision made by Darry. But it works because the film 1) acknowledges the dumbness and 2) makes sure the viewer understands why Darry just has to crawl into the pipe this instant.

Compelling Antagonists

No matter how identifiable or understandable your characters are, your readers will not be moved a whit if they’re being chased down a dark alleyway by a big, fluffy bunny (er, unless the story in question is Donnie Darko). Giving your antagonist some zombie/werewolf superpowers, or a bloody axe, or the ability to pull out a victim’s tongue with his teeth can be a solution to this.

But what’s less obvious, and more compelling, is to delve into the psychological. Some of the scariest films I’ve seen/books I’ve read include antagonists that personify some darker aspect of the protagonist’s own personality. In 28 Days Later, Jim and his friends not only have to contend with hoards of violent, highly contagious zombies, but also with a military group that believes rape and domination are the only options for humankind’s survival. Jim himself gouges out a soldier’s eyes while trying to protect his friends, and suddenly the military group’s reasoning starts to seem legitimate. It is, quite literally, an eat-or-be-eating world. The question is no longer, will Jim survive the zombies? The question has become: will he survive himself? (Oooh!)

Pacing

Imagine if Tyler and his team were being assaulted by underworldly creatures constantly for the entire of the truly crappy The Cave. Suddenly the pitch-blackness of the cave, which has worked so well in scaring you so far by playing on your inherent fear of the dark, would cease to be scary. The so-called “surprises” would cease to be scary. The film would begin to resemble an experience akin to being punched in the arm repeatedly for 90 minutes straight. The film becomes, in a word, annoying.

Despite all of The Cave’s other faults, part of the reason it works so well is because of pacing. The Cave takes place mostly underground, but even there, the story puts the characters in a safe place every once in a while, gives them a chance to catch their breath, and then plunges them right back into the darkness. It brings the characters into the light every once in a while, even if that’s only metaphorically speaking. Not only does it make the film more bearable for Tyler and company, but for the viewer as well. As paradoxical as it might sound, varying the pace will make the dark places seem even darker, and keep the story interesting.

Backstory

Part of what’s so interesting about The Ring is not just the intriguing horrors that befall all those who watch the cursed tape, but the whole story of how Samara came to be. We learn about Moesko Island, the Morgan Ranch, Anna’s adoption, and the mental institution both she and her daughter are committed to. It is a family history rife with psychosis, suicide, and abuse. Knowing all this is what makes that final vision of a waterlogged Samara crawling out of the TV set so scary. Without the backstory, she’s just a little girl, albeit a foul-looking one, what with the water and the decay and all. But thanks to the backstory, we know that she’s a foul-looking little girl with a tragic past, a hell of a grudge, and worse, the ability to do some serious damage.

The same backstory is what makes The Blair Witch Project work so well. In this case, the backstory delivers less information on who or what the Blair Witch actually is, but plenty on the atrocities she’s committed. Though we never come to understand her in the same way we do Samara, we recognize she’s got a serious track record of violence and mercilessness behind her, and this knowledge heightens suspense and gives us reason to be scared when Heather, Michael, and Joshua begin to notice some peculiar things happening around them.

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There’s no risk of any of these movies winning an Oscar anytime soon. But they succeed where a lot of other more “serious” films fail. They get a genuine rise out of their audience. So as positively godawful as these movies are…they’re doing something right.