To learn what we fear is to learn who we are. Horror defines our boundaries and illuminates our souls. In that, it is no different, or less controversial, than humor, and no less intimate than sex. Our rejection or acceptance of a particular type of horror fiction can be as rarefied or kinky as any other phobia or fetish. Horror is made of such base material—so easily rejected or dismissed—that it may be hard to accept my postulate that within the genre lies one of the last refuges of spirituality in our materialistic world.
Through the ages, most storytellers have had to resort to the fantastic in order to elevate their discourse to the level of parable. At a primal level, we crave parables, because they allow us to grasp impossibly large concepts and to understand our universe without and within. These tales can make flesh what would otherwise be metaphor or allegory. The horror tale in particular becomes imprinted in us at an emotional level: Shiver by shiver, we gain insight.
But, at its root, frisson is a crucial element of this form of storytelling—because all spiritual experience requires faith, and faith requires abandonment: the humility to fully surrender to a tide of truths and wills much larger than ourselves.
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