‘The climate crisis is taking a toll on the mental health of children and young people.’ This was the title of a study that was published by the Royal College of Psychiatrists in November 2020. Of the psychiatrists who took part, over half reported that they were treating children and young people with psychological distress related to the ongoing climate crisis. Other studies, published in well-respected journals such as The Lancet, have found similar trends. 
The rise of this so-called Eco-Anxiety (or Eco-Distress) is in many ways similar to the anxieties of past generations (for those of us who grew up during the Cold War it was the threat of global nuclear conflict that often plagued our thoughts), and while those fears were often based on legitimate concerns, the challenges we face now are more imminent and grow increasingly insurmountable by the day (as I write this the European Union’s Climate Service has reported that global warming has exceeded 1.5°C across an entire year for the first time since records began). Given the scale of the challenges we face, and the nature of the risks involved, it comes as no surprise that there has been a significant surge in the publication of Eco-Horror narratives.
It’s no secret that human beings love to meddle in things that they don’t understand. It’s a compulsion that has enabled our species to conquer the globe, triumph over deadly diseases, and even extend our influence into the cosmos. This inquisitive drive has also compelled us to look inward. From the epic poems of antiquity to the endless variety of box-set series that are streamed into homes around the world, storytellers have spent millennia delving into the deepest regions of the human condition. The genres that have arisen from the fruits of this process are many, and though each shines their light upon different aspects of our experience, none illuminates the pitiful heart of humanity as directly, or with as much devastating clarity as those that flicker with the shadowy light of the darkly speculative.
Since its publication in the early 19th Century, Mary Shelly’s ground-breaking novel Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus has inspired generations of writers, artists, and filmmakers. This outwardly simple tale encases layer upon layer of intertwining sub-text, from Shelly’s own personal traumas, through to broader matters of religion, science, and philosophy. But it’s the cautionary tale of a man’s futile attempt to dominate the archaic forces of nature. A man too clever for his own good, though never quite clever enough, a man too blinded by egotistic inquisitiveness to see what should have been obvious from the start. That he was never really in control.
Frankenstein has been rewritten, filmed, re-filmed, and repackaged too many times to count, and movies such as The Terminator, The Fly, Jurassic Park, and M3GAN are great examples of Shelly’s cautionary themes being applied to issues of scientific enquiry. But that good-old pioneering spirit is not confined to the laboratories or the particle accelerators.
The urge to set foot where few have been before is a defining feature of exploration and travel, though such opportunities are becoming increasingly rare. Even so, this desire remains a strong motivating factor. For some, the risks inherent in straying off the beaten track are a significant part of the appeal.
Watching The Descent, accompanying Juno and her friends as they delve into the caves of the Appalachian Mountains, is a terrifying experience, and that’s before the predatory creatures start to show up. And the prospect of losing yourself within the stark tangle of the Black Hills Forest is quite scary enough, without any reference to the legendary Blair Witch. But of course, as disturbing as these hostile landscapes can be on their own, it’s the dangers of the speculative kind that really bring the horror home.
It’s almost a certainty that someone you know has been witness to an unexplainable and seemingly paranormal event. You might even have had such an experience yourself. Under any circumstance, such occurrences can be deeply unsettling, and all the more so if they seem to be the result of our own actions. The themes of many supernatural movies are often allegorical and complex, though the fear they instil tends to be explicit and fundamental. Don’t meddle in things you don’t understand! Perhaps it would be best to leave that book – bound with what seems to be human skin – alone. Maybe playing with the Ouija board you found amongst your mother’s belongings in the basement wouldn’t be such a good idea, and maybe your mother should know better than to leave a Ouija board where their curious young daughter can find it. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, you might want to think twice before clasping that embalmed hand and inviting it to join you in conversation.
Sometimes curiosity really does kill the cat.
Horror fiction often reflects the anxieties of the era in which it was made, be that the racial inequalities and violence of 1960s USA, the avaricious materialism of the 1980s, or the post-9/11 nihilism of the 2000s. While these were all significant and understandable concerns, none were as existentially pressing as the threat posed today by man-made climate change.
As the extent of the problem and the extent to which we are responsible has slowly dawned on us, and as governments and corporations have continued to make insincere gestures of concern, an insidious sense of helplessness has proliferated, and for many has become overwhelming. Concerns about the environmental impact of human activity are not new, nor are the speculative books and films that reflect them, though the prospect of previous ‘nature bites back’ stories being translated into real life always felt vague. Like something that could happen, but probably wouldn’t… not at least, for a very long time.
This is no longer the case. Films like In the Earth, Gaia, and Annihilation might be great examples of speculative horror, but their various depictions of a world raging against the intensifying onslaught of humanity’s self-destructive impulses feel all too real. We used to have a sense that we had it all figured out, that we’d achieved dominion over the natural order of things. It was a good dream, while it lasted.
We have tried to control that which we have barely begun to understand, and in doing so have created a monster. As with Victor Frankenstein, our motives may have been well intended, but these have long been blighted by a conceited arrogance, blinding us to the damage we have done. And now – battered, scarred, defiled – our traumatised monster is exacting its retribution.
Several centuries of scientific and philosophical developments have convinced us that we were separate from nature. We even refer to the things that we create as ‘unnatural’, though they are not and could never be. [Spoiler Alert] The Earth has been trying to tell us this for a very long time, but like Gwyn and Glenda – the wealthy couple in Lee Haven Jones’ exquisite The Feast who are intent on exploiting the land and people with whom they no longer identify, we have ignored the increasingly extreme signs. The folkloric entity finally forces Gwyn and his family back into the fold, enacting upon them a fatal brutality. It’s a cycle of self-destruction that could have had a happier end. We need not suffer the same fate, though if we fail to take meaningful action soon, any choice that remains open to us will finally cease to exist.
Perhaps it’s time to accept that running away from the danger has not been the greatest move we Homo sapiens have ever made. For too long, we have scrambled mindlessly up the stairs to a room with no exit, the monster clawing ever closer at our heels. If only we could muster enough courage to turn around and look. We would see that perfectly good escape routes have been available to us all along, and that the doors leading to them are closing fast, soon to be locked forever.
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