The Politics of Horror: Why Horror Keeps Killing Women

I’ve always been a fan of horror. There’s something intoxicating about the adrenaline rush that comes with a well-crafted scare, the way a film or a book can wind you up so tightly that you walk (or run) a little faster through a dark hallway afterward. Even though the fear lingers long after the movie ends, like when I’m washing my face at night and panic at the thought of a strange being standing behind me, I can’t resist the urge to run on a horror film on a Friday night, popcorn in hand, and buried under a thick blanket. It’s a ritual, a comfort, even when it terrifies me.

Lately, I haven’t been indulging in horror fiction as much because I can turn on the news and experience something far more terrifying. The battle over reproductive rights, the rise of extremist legislation, and the policing of marginalized bodies and minorities feel like something straight out of a horror script. In the wake of these political storms, I found myself returning to my master’s thesis, which explored horror literature, architecture, and the monstrous feminine. Unsurprisingly, it still applies today.

Horror has long functioned as a cultural barometer, revealing and reinforcing social anxieties, particularly around those surrounding women and their autonomy. Whether she is the virginal Final Girl who survives by suppressing her desires, the mother unraveling beneath the weight of expectation, or the femme fatal punished for transgressing patriarchal boundaries, the female figure in horror is frequently marked for suffering. But why? And what do these recurring narratives reveal about cultural attitudes toward women — both in fiction and in the lived realities beyond the screen?

The monstrous feminine, as theorized by feminist scholar Barbara Creed, posits that society constructs female power as inherently threatening, particularly when it disrupts prescribed roles of motherhood, domesticity, and passivity. Horror, a genre that is fundamentally concerns with fear and disruption, amplifies this anxiety by rendering powerful women grotesque or deviant. The most striking monsters of contemporary horror are women who are deemed too much: too sexual (Jennifer’s Body), too ambitious (Pearl), too emotional (Hereditary), or too resistant to societal expectations (The Witch). These narratives do not emerge in isolation - They reflect broader ideological battles regarding women’s agency, particularly in relation to reproductive rights, gender-based violence, and the sociopolitical control of female bodies.

The constructed fear of female autonomy is not a relic of the past. From the historical persecution of witches to comtemporary legislative battles that seek to regulate women’s reproductive choices, the specter of female power continues to be met with institutional resistance. Horror distills these anxieties into monstrous imagery, making visible the latent fears that govern gendered oppression. When women suffer in horror films, it is not merely for spectacle - it is a manifestation of the real-world systems that seek to subjugate and control them. The next question, then, is not whether the women of horror are monstrous, but rather, who benefits from their monstrosity?

The Monstrous Feminine: Horror as a Reflection of Societal Anxieties Toward Women

The Monstrous Mother: When Motherhood Becomes a Nightmare

Motherhood in horror is rarely a peaceful experience. Instead of baby showers and lullabies, we get demonic children, cursed pregnancies, and moms unraveling faster than a sweater in a slasher flick. Whether it’s Annie in Hereditary desperately trying (and failing) to protect her family, or the mother in The Babadook literally haunted by her own grief, horror has a knack for making motherhood terrifying. And honestly? It’s not just for the sake of jump scares.

These narratives tap into real fears about the expectations placed on women. Hereditary isn't just about a supernatural horror—it’s about the crushing weight of generational trauma and the way women are expected to bear it all, even when they’re breaking. The Babadook takes the often-dismissed struggles of postpartum depression and turns it into a literal monster. In the wake of Roe v. Wade’s overturning, these stories feel even more pressing. What happens when women are stripped of autonomy and forced into motherhood? Horror has been answering that question for decades, and the answer is often: nothing good.

The Sexual Woman: Punishment Through Desire

Let’s be real—horror has been slut-shaming since before it had a name for it. If you’ve ever watched a slasher movie, you already know the rules: have sex, and you’re doomed. The Final Girl stays virginal and pure, and that’s why she gets to live. But this isn’t just a tired horror trope—it reflects deep-seated cultural fears about female sexuality.

It Follows (2014) turns sex into a literal death sentence, reinforcing the idea that desire must be punished. Pearl (2022) presents an ambitious woman with repressed sexual desires and makes her a monster for wanting more than her rural farm life. The message is clear: women who dare to want—power, pleasure, autonomy—will pay for it.

Outside of film, this narrative persists. We see it in the moral panic over reproductive rights, in legislation restricting access to contraception and abortion, in the idea that a woman’s worth is tied to her purity. Horror doesn’t just reflect these anxieties; it amplifies them, turning them into blood-soaked cautionary tales.

The Witch and the Woman Who Refuses to Conform

If there’s one horror archetype that refuses to die, it’s the witch. Whether it’s The Witch (2015) or Carrie (1976), the story remains the same: women who challenge societal norms—who refuse to be obedient, silent, or subservient—are deemed dangerous. And what does society do with dangerous women? It burns them.

The Witch is essentially a Puritan horror story about a teenage girl choosing freedom over repression. Thomasin is cast out, blamed for her family’s misfortunes, and ultimately finds power in her ostracization. Meanwhile, Carrie tells the tale of a girl punished for daring to come into her own power, both sexually and supernaturally. It’s not a coincidence that both these films end in fire and destruction. The message? A woman who refuses to conform must be extinguished.

This plays out in real life too. Women who challenge the status quo—whether in politics, media, or their personal lives—are vilified, harassed, and controlled. The fight for bodily autonomy, the scrutiny of female politicians, and the demonization of outspoken women all stem from the same fear that fuels these horror stories. And as much as we’d like to think we’ve evolved beyond literal witch hunts, history keeps proving otherwise.

Conclusion: Who Benefits from the Monstrous Feminine?

Horror isn’t just about making us jump—it’s about making us think. And when it comes to the treatment of women in horror, there’s a lot to unpack. Whether it’s the monstrous mother, the punished seductress, or the vengeful witch, the genre has long served as a mirror to society’s deepest anxieties about women and power.

But horror isn’t necessarily changing—it’s simply finding new ways to distort and amplify the same sociopolitical anxieties that have always existed. The genre isn’t just about fear—it’s about fear weaponized for control, fear turned against the bodies of those who disrupt societal norms. And, as history has shown, that fear is often directed toward women and minorities first.

We’re already seeing horror tackle these anxieties in ways that feel both familiar and deeply relevant. The resurgence of body horror, psychological torment, and technological dread speaks to our collective unease about bodily autonomy, surveillance, and the limits of human control. Films like Nosferatu (2024), The Substance (2024), and Heretic (2024) reinforce the genre’s longstanding tradition of making women’s suffering a spectacle—whether as critique, commentary, or, disturbingly, audience entertainment. The violence, both fictional and real, remains, and horror simply repackages it for modern consumption.

So, who’s the real monster here? The woman who dares to break free—or the systems that insist she must be contained?

This is only the beginning of the conversation. In Part Two, we’ll dig into how horror uses bodily transformation—possession, mutation, shape-shifting—as a metaphor for society’s anxieties about gender and power. Because if there’s one thing horror loves, it’s a woman who refuses to stay the same.

All opinions and views expressed are my own

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All opinions and views expressed are my own *