You can’t expose yourself to grisly images and concepts on the daily and not have a strong stomach. And so it was with more than a little surprise that I found myself having to repeatedly take a break from episode 10 of the fantastic Charles Manson’s Hollywood podcast, which recounts in grisly detail the murders that took place at Sharon Tate’s home in 1969.
Now none of these details were new to me. In fact, I’d go so far as to say there may have been elements left out in the telling. But the very intimate nature of listening to the description of events instead of reading it or watching it impacted me in a way for which I was wholly unprepared. And so it got me thinking about the ways in which podcasts are revolutionizing the horror experience for fans.
At its heart, Manson’s directed murder sprees were revenge fantasies. One might assume that because the Manson podcast details true life murders as opposed to Hollywood created ones, that this difference plays a significant role in how the audience processes the unfolding details. But not necessarily. Both real life and fictionalized horror narratives ultimately work because they do one thing effectively. They instill fear.
It’s possible that with a crime as widely known as the Manson murders that this cultural knowledge of the crimes may affect an audience’s experience, because we already feel connected to the events via news footage and general pop culture depictions. But for those lesser known stories, is there any experiential difference for the audience? Are the events of a horrific real-life case of home invasion, for example, internalized differently than a similar story that’s made up by an audience who has no pre-existing knowledge of the case? Surprisingly, I’ve not come across any research delving into this topic, but I do think it’s worth considering when a story stops being “just a story” for an audience and becomes a personal investment.
In considering the impact of horror podcasts, however, I tend to lean on the side of the veracity of the story being secondary to the experience that’s being created. Like cinematic horror, podcasts must bypass the logical part of our brains in order to trigger an instinctual response. The best horror stories are able to set hearts palpitating and create a noticeable sense of dread.
But with so much self-reflexivity in modern horror, do those same visual cues still work to instill fear or is a different sensory experience required for some fans? Certainly, the auditory nature of podcasts triggers different parts of the brain than do the visual stimuli of film. Yes, film contains many of those same auditory cues, but those cues, when removed from working in tandem with visuals, become a different sensory experience.
Much like sitting around a campfire sharing scary stories, podcasts also create an elevated sense of intimacy. Often, they are designed to be a solitary experience. And so while communities may pop up in which the narrative gets dissected and ruminated over by equally obsessed fans, the actual initial experience isn’t traditionally a shared one. Whether you’re listening on headphones at the gym or while on your evening commute, podcasts don’t often have the same exchange of frenetic energy one might get sitting in a theatre packed with enthusiastic spectators. And so, podcasts must elicit that fear by creating a unique experience for fans.
It’s no surprise that Alfred Hitchcock, the director credited with elevating the critical perception of American horror films, relied more upon suggestion than explicit visuals. Most notably, when asked about their experience viewing Psycho, audiences often believed the film to be more explicit than it was simply because Hitchcock had provided enough space in the most horrific sequences for viewers’ minds to fill in the gaps. And what our minds can envision is often significantly more frightening than what can be visually depicted. In many ways, today’s horror podcasts are predicated upon a similar approach.
Tropes exist for a reason, especially within this genre. They provide shortcuts to accessing the instinctual responses horror elicits from audiences while simultaneously offering a shared visual point of entry for fans. We know nothing good will come from the lone teenager walking down a desolate street bathed in a flickering street light. We expect that the woman fleeing up the stairs instead of out the door has just made a fatal mistake. Those emotional instincts, brought about by the leveraging of tropes and conventions, are what fuel cinematic horror. But they are also at play in auditory-based experiences.
It’s no surprise that fictionalized horror podcasts often employ advanced sound techniques to create a multilayered experience for listeners. Much like the crackling fire adds to the ambiance of shared scary stories told during a camping trip, podcasts recounting tales of things that go bump in the night often turn to auditory clues such as creaking staircases or foreboding music to entrance listeners and build suspense. Podcasts such as Alice Isn’t Dead and Limetown masterfully blend music and sound effects with horror tropes to create in audiences an almost instant sense of discomfort.
Yet, that’s not to say that podcasts eschewing sound can’t be equally effective. The brilliant Knifepoint Horror is my personal favorite example of a stripped down podcast that is utterly terrifying. The podcast relies entirely on the narrator’s voice to build suspense and both the timbre and phrasing works to rival the best sound production. During sequences told in nothing above a whisper, we lean in anxious to hear details we may otherwise miss and, in doing so, our attention is riveted on the story. By elevating our interaction with the story, this podcast, and others like it, bypasses our sense of distance from the narrative by making us participants in the story.
As I listened to the Manson crimes alone in my home, I was struck by the very visceral fear that I experienced as the story unfurled. It felt private in a way that’s difficult to quantify and as a fan of horror, I welcomed it. As podcasts continue to evolve and become more visible, I’m excited to see how they impact the future of horror storytelling.
