March Issue
Rebecca Canton
March
Ah, the deep South: a cultural and geographical subregion of plains and bayous amidst a backdrop of Confederate history. A land of alligators, gumbo and sweet tea. Against this backdrop of ‘ma’ams’ and ‘sirs,’ there’s a deeply ingrained culture of American tradition, yet despite—or perhaps even because of this—the South has always harbored something darker. A place for rednecks, yes. But also, apparently, goths. Such an idea might seem absurd; the deep South is not exactly known for its accommodation towards the nonconformers. Nor do goths, with their rejection of mainstream culture, fit the ‘Southern Belle’ stereotype. Despite this, the gothic, in its truest form, has always belonged there.
What exactly is gothic? It originates from something older than one might think. Although not classified as gothic, the plays of William Shakespeare, notably tragedies such as Hamlet, Macbeth, and Richard III, which all feature plots revolving around the supernatural, revenge and ghosts, were all a large influence upon early gothic literature. However, gothic fiction as a genre in itself first appeared with Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto, published in 1764, depicting the story of the character Manfred and his family. The story starts with his son being crushed to death by a large helmet—gruesome, yet typical of the genre. In 1818, there was Frankenstein, which marked a shift in gothic horror, as the villain was not a supernatural creature, but an ordinary man—yes, Victor Frankenstein. In Europe, the Gothic thrived on the sublime of vast, mysterious landscapes and ruined castles. It was a rejection of industrialization—a celebration of the old. If we take Frankenstein, Victor was cursed for disrupting human nature, for experimenting where he shouldn’t have. Yet, when the Gothic established itself in the United States, it often took root in the South. Authors didn’t need fourteenth-century castles, or a region by the name of Transylvania—they had plantations. After the Civil War, it was these mansions of decay that became the location for gothic literature of sins and the equivocally evil history of the South.
Whilst traditional gothic fiction relies on external horrors—vampires, ghosts, monsters—the Southern Gothic tends to reject this in favor of looking inwards. The terror is no longer supernatural, as seen in Frankenstein or Macbeth, but psychological. When talking about Southern Gothic, it's impossible not to mention Flannery O’Connor. Unlike the work of British or other European authors, O’Connor did not rely on traditional elements of horror. Her works are void of ghosts or demons. Instead, her stories feature deeply flawed characters, from criminals to religious fanatics. She depicts a myriad of lost souls wandering the dirt roads of the South.
Her short story A Good Man Is Hard to Find, published in 1953, is one of her most famous works, perfectly exemplifying the ‘grotesque.’ The word has no true meaning, it is neither truly ugly or truly beautiful, but an unnerving synthesis between the two. From a literary perspective, characters that symbolize the ‘grotesque’ tend to invoke both empathy and disgust. If a character is simply disgusting, it is reduced to just a monster. Yet, the grotesque makes it more. Take the monster from Frankenstein—it killed Victor’s whole family, but did he not deserve it? Looking at O’Connor’s work, the story begins as an ordinary family road trip, yet quickly descends into horror when the family meets the ‘Misfit,’ an escaped convict. He is not a conventional monster, being polite, articulate and even philosophical. However, at the end of it all, he is a killer, and kills the whole family one by one. The grandmother is the last one alive, and begs the Misfit for redemption, discussing Christianity and the Misfit’s own thoughts on God. The Misfit seems engaged in conversation, all until the grandmother touches the Misfit, who promptly shoots her three times in the chest.
From a Catholic perspective, what happens to the grandmother is called a ‘moment of grace,’ in which God fills her with supernatural love, enabling her to see the Misfit as a fellow suffering human. The Misfit recoils at her touch, which causes him to shoot her, yet she has already had her redemption and dies with a smile on her face. Despite this common analysis, there are no clear answers provided by O’Connor—there is no moment of triumph, no decisive victor between good and evil. Instead of killer clowns and evil dolls, the horror lies in the tragic realization that beauty and brutality exist side by side. This is where the grotesque and the Southern Gothic detach themselves from mainstream horror. It is not simply death and gore, but an entanglement between beauty and terror. It forces the reader to confront human nature. It unsettles and scares, but does not offer relief or a conclusion.
Away from literature, it invokes the question of: why the South? If the South is so deeply religious—it quite literally has been termed the ‘Bible Belt’ during cultural and political descriptions—why is it so drawn to horror? The answer lies in the paradox that envelops faith itself. To believe in heaven is to acknowledge that hell also exists. The belief in salvation is not complete without the recognition of sin. The South, with its religion and belief in divine punishment, has always and will always be a place where horror feels natural.
This becomes evident even in modern media, with Southern horror films, which take the themes of the Southern Gothic and then amplify them. For example, this can be seen in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974). The film fits multiple criteria for the Southern Gothic: it takes place in rural Texas, with the Sawyer house filled with bones and rotting furniture. The family, especially Leatherface, embodies the grotesque perfectly. Even more recently, with The Devil All the Time (2020), the film surrounds faith and violence, the two things essential for the Southern Gothic. And then, of course, there is true crime. The region has produced some of the most infamous serial killers, from Henry Lee Lucas to Donald Henry ‘Pee Wee’ Gaskins. True crime documentaries have become modern gothic tales, with The Murdaugh Murders: A Southern Scandal becoming the number one Netflix show the day after it premiered.
Further, despite an increasingly secular world, the Southern Gothic, especially in the form of religious mysticism, is making a resurgence. Take Ethel Cain’s Preacher’s Daughter, a concept album that tells the story of a Southern girl, raised in a deeply religious small town, who becomes consumed—both literally and figuratively—by faith, trauma, and ultimately, horrific violence. The final song on the album, Strangers, whilst initially seemingly a song of love, transcends into something entirely sinister. As Cain repeats, ‘Am I making you feel sick?’ in a haunting melody with the revolting revelation behind the protagonist asking such is because she is quite literally being eaten. The beauty of the melody, as is with the Southern Gothic, completely juxtaposes the horror of its meaning. It is a modern example of how the Southern Gothic is evolving, blending music and storytelling into something uniquely unsettling.
Why is it that when a car crashes, those behind it slow down to look? Common sense would indicate a desire to look away, to be shielded from horror. Yet, humans, like moths to a flame, are drawn in by flashing police lights and the wailing cries of ambulance sirens. It is down to human nature. It is not out of morbid pleasure, but due to a deep, primal fascination with disaster. The Southern Gothic thus endures because of this instinct. We are drawn to horror not because we enjoy suffering, but because it forces us to confront truths and reassures us we are alive. The grotesque unsettles, yes, but it also fascinates us. This fascination is like the very topic, paradoxical. We want to look away, but something intangible will always bring us back.
Photo source: Stock Image