Horror, Empathy and Me
by Matt Hudson | Published 1 February 2026
I’ve been watching horror films for longer than I’d want my parents to know. Whilst most of my youthful contemporaries were knee deep in The Fast Show or Friends, hooked on Pokémon, or simply learning to share football stickers and books like a normal kid, I was learning about chain saw massacres in Texas, the fact that the living dead could return, and trying to work out just where that crucifix was going…
Yet, despite the lashings of blood, severed limbs, the screaming (so much screaming), the things that contorted and creaked, and The Exorcist being my version of comfort food, horror films didn’t traumatize me. In fact, quite the opposite happened. The genre helped to shape me. Unexpectedly, yes, and perhaps I wasn’t quite aware of the fact during those formative years, but, simply put, horror taught me how to FEEL.
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Now, I’m fully aware that this may sound strange, or potentially alarming, to some. I can imagine saying that paragraph out loud and having people staring at me like I’ve just exclaimed that Freddy Krueger is my emotional support counsellor (Note: Don’t rummage in my dreams, Krueger, it won’t go the way you think). But the years and countless films and experiences with the genre have taught me the most about empathy. That’s right, actual empathy. The true kind that makes you care for characters you have no bond with, and the kind that provides a deep, uncomfortable, slightly-messy emotional awareness as you worry about actual strangers. But, more importantly, the type of empathy that has me checking that my friends make it home, to work or wherever safely, day or night, regardless of their journey length. Because this wild genre I love helped teach me how to care.
The Exorcist © 1973 Warner Bros
Of course, it has also scared the living hell out of me on many occasions, and sometimes it has straight up traumatised me. However, I would be lying if I said that wasn’t the reason I kept returning. The sheer emotional cross-training I receive from a good horror session could rival most of my previous gym sessions (yes, I did use to go to the gym…), but I bloody love it. Horror gives you a bit of everything, pulse-pounding terror and joyful relief, utter dread and pure catharsis, and everything in between and all around. Whether it will keep my heart healthy is one thing, but it certainly keeps the blood pumping.
Watching horror alone is fun, but when you’re in a cinema with friends or strangers, something else happens. You become emotionally bound by what’s unfolding onscreen. You jump because someone else jumps, you laugh nervously, you cheer and cry together - and somewhere in all that, you learn to empathise while thinking you’re just being entertained.
But even in the darkest and most suffocating situations, there’s more to be found outside of just dread and anxiety. When I think about one of my favourite films, James Cameron’s 1986 classic Aliens, naturally my mind goes straight to the iconic xenomorphs and the squad of walking testosterone vessels that wielded impressive pulse rifles and an even more impressive, and misplaced, sense of invincibility. But what makes Aliens so damn special? Ellen Ripley, exhausted and traumatised, choosing to protect and love a scared child back to life (and Jonesy the cat previously as well!). Sigourney Weaver absolutely crushes her role (duh) in what is one of the most empathetic action-horror films ever made. Just remember, as everything goes to hell and the facehuggers and xenomorphs begin their penetrative and acid-soaked playtime, it’s about connection.
Aliens © 1986 20th Century Fox
When writing this, my mind turned to A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors (though the same can be said when I’m simply making a cup of tea). It’s another film I love, and another instance where I immediately think of the antagonist, this time, Mr. Krueger. But why do I, and we, love Dream Warriors? Well, because of the Dream Warriors. The very soul of the films revolves around a pack of teenagers who have only ever been misunderstood, dismissed, and abandoned, but together they find strength and community. They show that they don’t need to be fixed to matter. Their unity became their armour (well, until Krueger began to wipe them out), and Dream Warriors made me root for those who had been overlooked. That’s what horror can do, it teaches that no one is disposable and that connection can come from the unlikeliest of places and people.
The beauty of the genre is that horror films don’t just need to rely on simple scares, slashings, or gore (as some would have you believe), instead it can externalise what frightens us emotionally, and, in turn, provide empathy by osmosis. Solid examples of this can be found in two of my favourite horror films. Alex Garland’s Annihilation is cerebral, it’s brutal (that damn bear), and it’s a quiet, existential meltdown dripping in psychedelic terror. Yes, the bear genuinely made me question the strength of my bowels, but in a story with mutated alligators, assimilated human-plant hybrids, and a weird pearlescent amorphous entity, the actual monster of the story is grief and self-destruction - the parts of the characters that have always struggled to heal. As the already-fractured characters find, The Shimmer doesn’t provide them with fresh traits or feelings, it simply refracts what they were already carrying. The horror, then, isn’t that the monster changes you, but that it reveals what was already broken.
Having mentioned pearlescent, how about Ti West’s Pearl? (What a segue...) Just with its delicious colour saturation, menagerie of interesting animals, and scarecrow-assisted orgasms, the film has enough to make it a camp, chaotic experience. But it’s also a startlingly empathetic portrait of a girl starving for affection and recognition. Does she attempt to resolve these problems in rational or responsible ways? Absolutely not, unless you count problem-solving with pitchforks and axes as rational and responsible, but I can’t pretend to not understand where Pearl’s pain and sadness comes from. Also, when you have Mia Goth deliver an all-timer monologue where she delivers her truths such as the one that closes out Pearl? Superb.
Basically, that is to say that horror can turn trauma into metaphor in ways that mean us as the viewer don’t have to analyse it in any clinical manner. Instead, you just feel it.
Pearl © 2022 A24
It’s funny, and I’m sure most of you have heard this, but the general consensus is that horror fans are brutish, sadistic nutters that dwell in the dark, live in leather and chains, and eagerly guzzle popcorn whilst someone has their limbs torn off mercilessly onscreen. Now, the latter is certainly true, and I’m sure some fans tick the other boxes, but in my experience, horror fans and the community are some of the most emotionally tuned-in, socially aware and progressive bunch you’ll ever meet.
As a collective, we’ve spent years watching people suffer, survive, break, heal, scream, endure, and fight. We’ve practiced and perfected caring about fictional strangers with all our soul, because us horror fans feel things deeply.
Now that I’m a parent to an extremely enthusiastic little horror fiend - my nine-year-old daughter, who wants to spend every film night with Daddy just watching horror films - it has given me the chance to see how early that emotional intelligence through horror can take root. She loves The Nun and Annabelle, she loves Five Nights at Freddy’s, she loves both chapters of It, and spoke about the Losers Club like they were her friends. Hell, she even likes The Exorcist: Believer! And what I find sweetest is not just that she enjoys being scared (she does love a jumpscare…), it’s that she roots for people so earnestly and in the way that you would hope. Obviously she digs the villains, but she wants the heroes and protagonists to stick together, survive and to hug at the end. With nearly fifty horror films under her belt already, she has the emotional priorities of a veteran horror fan and critic, and has a keen eye and ear for editing and scores as well!
Watching her fall in love with the genre reminds me why I did all those years ago. Yes, horror is scary, it’s supposed to be in many ways, but it’s also safe in many other ways. It shows you the darkness so you can better appreciate the light.
Horror taught me that fear is universal and vulnerability is brave - something that we’re arguably not taught as a kid in school. The genre also taught me that no one should face the monster alone, because survival is not just physical - it’s emotional.
I watched horror looking for the thrill that only this genre can provide, but, without realising early on, I came out understanding others better as the years went by. Maybe that’s why I’ve stuck with it through every high and low of my life - and why my kid is following in my spooky little footsteps. Despite all the blood, guts, gore, palpitations, sweat, and numb feelings over the decades, horror softened me, and, in a way, made me far more human than maybe I would have without my favourite genre.
All that being said, for me, horror is the best guardian I never had. It taught me courage, compassion, and, you guessed it, empathy.