Nyctophobia

As with many children, I used to be afraid of the dark. The daytime fosters chatter, laughter, and movement in a home. Conversely, the nighttime commands silence and stillness. This is understandable, of course. We live—talk, eat, work, et cetera—during the day. We sleep (or try to) at night. However, when that silence or stillness is interrupted, the very temperament of the night is violated. Night filled with noise—unexpected noise—is frightening to a kid with an overactive imagination. Most often, the creaking or sudden cracking of the house “settling,” as my mother used to call it, were the disturbances which tormented my childhood sleep. An inhuman sound coupled with the feeling of impending doom conjures vivid misconceptions as to who or what could be lurking outside my bedroom door. I recall the times that my eyes would snap open upon hearing one of these creaks, pupils dilated as I worriedly scanned the walls of my room. My own fear built upon itself with heightened senses: was that a shadow beneath my door? Did the air suddenly get cooler? The tension would grow steadily with every change I noticed until it eventually climaxed, and I would go running to my parents’ room for refuge.

Ironically, slow-burn horror films, books, and games have become one of my favorite genres. The subtle build-up of creepy events creates a unique suspense that eventually results in a terrifying crescendo. Scary, yes, but also relieving in the sense that you no longer fester in your mental distress.

But what happens if this tension is not released?

Roald Dahl’s The Landlady challenges the nature of slow-burns by demonstrating that the things you don’t read on a page can be just as scary as the things that are. He follows the conventions of a slow-burn for most of the story. For example, Dahl gradually makes the ominousness of the landlady more apparent as the tale progresses from her odd stressing of certain words to her concerning skill of taxidermy. More importantly, there seems to be a noticeable correlation between the landlady asserting that Mr. Hulholland and Mr. Temple are “here,” (Alive? Probably not.) while simultaneously referring to their physical conditions in the past tense (age, height, teeth whiteness, skin) (Dahl 32-33). Furthermore, the landlady’s comment thereafter strongly supports the presumption that these boys are now taxidermized: “‘I stuff all my little pets myself when they pass away,’” (Dahl 32). Yet, Dahl does not grant the reader the satisfaction of a horrific resolution to free them from anxious anticipation like in typical slow-burns. Is this conclusion correct? What does this mean for Billy as the landlady’s third guest? Instead, Dahl capitalizes on the creativity of the imagination to decipher what will become of Billy’s fate. The chances are whatever conclusion his audience concocts is likely more dreadful than the ending he would have written himself. In this way, Dahl creates a peculiar slow-burn—a slow-burn that never results in ashes.

The suspended ending simply continues to burn.

The fear of the unknown is what makes the horror of The Landlady effective. Similarly, the fear of the unknown made me afraid of the dark. Perhaps not knowing is the most petrifying kind of fear because the imagination never ceases to terrify.