Throughout the autumn season, I’m especially drawn to horror and horror-adjacent fiction through films and literature. It’s a genre with which I have a love/hate relationship, in part because of how often ableism pops up in these stories. Physical differences such as facial or bodily anomalies feature prominently: think of Frankenstein’s monster, or Leatherface from the Texas Chainsaw franchise. Many stories suggest that villains must be physically different, mentally “disturbed,” or both. It’s not enough to be a killer—a disfigured face or an unusual gait must be thrown into the mix so the audience can be sure this individual is evil.
Even when trying to depict disability in a positive way, creators tend to fall short. One of my favourite horror films, Mike Flanagan’s Hush, tells the story of a deaf woman who goes toe-to-toe with a home invader. While the movie is thrilling, it has its problems—not the least of which is Flanagan’s choice to cast hearing actor Kate Siegel in the lead role. (I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Siegel is also his wife.) Flanagan and Siegel wrote the film together, apparently without input from deaf or nonverbal people. This isn’t a surprise, given that Flanagan was motivated by the desire to make a film without dialogue rather than a desire to represent a disabled character. It’s technically a well-made movie, but it could’ve been better with a deaf co-writer or consulting team.
While not exclusively a horror genre, dystopian fiction is another terrible culprit of ableism. Many writers haven’t reckoned with how disabled people might live in a post-apocalyptic world. In Emily St Handel’s (award-winning) novel Station Eleven, a wheelchair user named Frank dies by suicide rather than becoming a burden to his brother, Jeevan. It’s worth noting that the HBO adaptation of the book alters this plot point, perhaps because audiences were more likely to be put off by blatant ableism in 2021 than in 2014. (Frank still gets sidelined, however, as Salon staff writer Alison Stine notes in this piece.) Similarly, Demián Rugna’s When Evil Lurks depicts the end of days from the point of view of a troubled man and his family, including a nonverbal autistic character named Jair. I initially worried Jair would be abandoned given his high support needs, so I was pleasantly surprised when he was not. However, he ends up being part of a careless plot twist that ultimately adds nothing to the story. There’s also a nasty implication about autistic traits being similar to possession symptoms.
Much like Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees, it seems these problematic tropes just refuse to die. A handful of authors and screenwriters are rising to the challenge, however. Succeeding where Hush failed, John Krasinski’s A Quiet Place depicts a prominent deaf character played by a deaf actor. Author Andrew Joseph White centres complex queer, trans and autistic characters in his YA horror novels. So far, there are three movies in the Quiet Place franchise and White is set to release his fourth book (and his first adult novel) in 2025. The popularity of these stories suggests that consumers of today want a more thoughtful approach to horror. There’s a long way to go, but the possibilities are exciting.
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