A Personal Review of Gothic Horror That Haunts
I said in my last post that I’m not too fond of horror. But maybe my hesitation is restricted to the visual kind only. As you can see in my latest update, I’ve been drawn to select a genre which, only until last week, I had traditionally run away from. Just as in my childhood, I was again irresistibly drawn to this story and read it with the same fascination as when I used to listen to them—when my friends or adults shared similar stories in the late, dim evening light.
My Experience with Classic Horror Literature
My only other experience of horror in story form is Frankenstein, Dracula, and The Cask of Amontillado, which I had read and uploaded to my collection recently. Though all good for their time, I never really felt that any of them had the capacity to invoke a sense of dread or horror in me while I was engrossed in the narrative.
I say “for their time” because we’ve seen so many real acts of horror in our day that fictional accounts of that sort kind of pale in comparison to what we’ve witnessed online.
Mary Shelley probably foresaw something akin to the cloning technology we are all too familiar with. And Bram Stoker’s Dracula has been so overdone in cinema—and not too well in most cases—that I can almost feel a yawn coming on when I think about it. The Cask of Amontillado, though gripping and horrific in its outcome, is not something we can’t imagine on second reflection.
Why Carmilla Still Stands Out in Gothic Horror
But Carmilla. It’s amazing. It stands out. It inspires a dread of the unknown.
As a gothic horror novella, Carmilla succeeds where many classic horror stories fail—it creates a slow, psychological unease rather than relying on shock or spectacle.
I confess, as a reader of fiction—classic or any other kind—my experience of this genre is extremely limited. However, the feelings generated by this account of something that happened long ago don’t depend on experience. When you look over your shoulder to see if someone or something is in the room with you, or decide to take a moment while reading to look up just to be sure there’s no one standing there, you know the author is doing his job—and doing it damn well.
The Power of Psychological Horror in Carmilla
Now some of you, more used to this kind of fiction or unfazed by horror in film, might say, “Grow up, man. It’s just a story—special effects or whatever. No need to hide under your bed.” But I would point out at this stage that desensitization doesn’t equal courage.
The fact that the author, by mere words and a slow, deliberate pace, can draw you into that feeling of dread and convince you to double-check your imagination—while at the same time holding you to the narrative, and all this while reading it in the shadow of the late evening—proves a point: the power of words to affect our imagination and thought processes, and images to shape our reality. It’s powerful. In the wrong hands.
Le Fanu’s power lies in this ability. He left me with a fascination for gothic horror fiction which I have never felt before, and has certainly drawn me in to investigate more of it. That is, as soon as I stop checking over my shoulder.
Final Thoughts on Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu
However, I also came away with a feeling of calm enjoyment after I was done. The ability to tantalize your brain cells with all the emotions, and in the end leave you with a subtle, pleasant feeling of enjoyment, despite your misgivings, is genius in my estimate.
Much like Carmilla. In the story you’re drawn in, because she leaves you with a pleasant feeling. But at the same time, you wonder:
Have you let in someone—or something—you shouldn’t have?