Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
The transformation of man into werewolf.
Wendigo.
Werehyenas.
Jorōgumo, a spider that shapeshifts into a woman (there’s something for your nightmares).
Zombies in every form.
The making of a vampire.
These transmutations represent more than just the birth of a baddie—they reflect change, upheaval, disruption, metamorphosis. This, regardless of whether or not it was by choice. These transitions and their resulting manifestations inspire resistance in most—revulsion toward the new and abject fear of their implications. This is not strange or unique. It is, in fact, quite common, because we are afraid of change—as a species, we are patently afraid of it. We like to know that our favorite dish will always be on the menu at the restaurant we enjoy going to; we like to know what our paychecks will be at the end of the week. We like to know that roses are red and violets are blue, though that last bit is debatable. When something comes along to change that reality, those norms—those expectations—we balk. Our dander goes up. We bristle. We resist. It takes a while to settle into the newfangled; it requires a little bit of effort to adopt the new thing as the norm. And it’s not something we like to talk about, either, this reluctance we feel, because that nameless, faceless “they” promote change, advocate for it, require it, even if unsaid, because to be a model employee, a team player, a good sport, you have to be able to roll with the punches, embrace the change that you hate with every fiber of your being, be an agent of the very change you would rather ignore, sabotage, destroy.
Change, “they” say, is good.
One thing time has taught us is that change is inevitable. There have been songs written about how you can’t ever go back home and how a love found under the cover of night will be different when seen in the light of day. Horror fiction has been an effective vehicle to illustrate society’s response to the inevitability of change, diving into the raw emotion and eliciting a shrill, poignant scream in response. Consider the increasingly grotesque depictions of zombies in movies and comic books. The dead, that is, the human who has changed from the living to the unfathomable undead, are shown to be a horrific manifestation of gore designed to make audiences cringe and shrink away. Think also of the vampire, romanticized and idolized . . . until the fangs come out and the humanity dissipates under the weight of base need.
They are not as they used to be; indeed, they are the very antithesis of living, viable tissue. That fact alone makes real the revulsion, the terror we shrink away from. But what accounts for the visceral reaction these antagonists draw from us, the ones we find it difficult to remain silent about . . . the ones we lambast others for enjoying or identifying with the qualities of? One need only think of people they’ve encountered in life—family, friends, colleagues, neighbors—and chronicle their reactions to the idea that they (or anyone, for that matter) enjoyed horror fiction. Many would tell the same story—their sanity came into question during those conversations, their allegiance to religious practices as well. A myriad of “othering” qualities were likely lobbed toward them in hopes of purchase . . . in hopes that this concerned citizen might diagnose the afflicted, the tormented, and misguided. Why? What about these antagonists and the enjoyment of them elicits such a strong response?
Simply put, we recognize these antagonists as kin, and we know that, given the right (or wrong) circumstances, we could find ourselves suffering the same plight.
These horror antagonists were once like us. We identify with them even if it is only on a subconscious level. Before their transformations, they likely had jobs, went to the movies, fell in love, laughed with their whole bodies, and ate candy before bed when they were kids. But now, whether on the big screen, on the small screen, over the audio waves, or within the pages of a book, they have changed. Whether willingly or through no fault of their own, they have transformed; what was once human has become soulless, lifeless, mindless. They are beings that only resemble the humans they once were. They are shattered existences battered by the change they fought against and lost, overcome by the new that overtook the old.
Like the update that renders our phones useless if we don’t download and apply it.
Like the streamlined functionality designed to make work easier but adds more steps to an already tedious process.
Like fighting the years with pulls and tucks and plumps and dyes even though time is still keeping count.
Fear keeps the masses fleeing from the infected who run them down with supernatural speed. Fear keeps the gyms full and the plastic surgeon’s calendar full.
Change, in all its bulbous-eyed, bloody-mouthed glory, chases behind us all with open mouths, breathing hot breath on our heels.
Disruption as a construct is a common theme in dystopian fiction and it works because people are afraid of such a moment in time, where they are unable to navigate a new world or to save themselves from those who have resorted to violence as a means of survival. Those who succumb do so under the will of those who change to survive. Life breaks through arid ground to bloom prettily against the dust.
With change comes growth, perspective, resilience.
At the molecular level, the eco-adventure that is life in the city resembles desperate existence in the frigid tundra: they are existences marked by change . . . environments destined to continue this cycle indefinitely, a course set and impacted by industry, progress, and climate. As a butterfly escapes the chrysalis to spread its wings and fly, so does society if it wants to survive. Into soulless, mindless husks walking the earth in cycles, doing the same thing over and over again? Into the undead with no motivation beyond bloodletting to forge ahead, to soldier on? I submit that we are closer to that end than ever before.
But of course, change is so very good.
