Introduction and Guide for Terror International: Folk Horror from Around the World

by L. Andrew Cooper and H.J. Dutton

with Reese Hurd, Editorial Assistant, and Silas the Scribble Man, Postcolonialist

“I am the writing on the wall, the whisper in the classroom. Without these things, I am nothing.”

—Candyman (1992)

Folk horror, done right, isn’t “folksy,” precious, inauthentic, or campy. Like the now canonical Clive-Barker-based film Candyman, which is a self-conscious meditation on modern folklore, or urban legends, it is usually very serious and very scary, a dagger aimed at the heart of a culture’s anxieties that originates in its most shameful histories. Folk horror derives from what today we think of as “campfire tales,” what a slightly earlier period referred to as “nursemaid’s tales.” Its roots are in the most ancient forms of storytelling, oral traditions spoken from generation to generation not just through centuries but through millennia, tales designed to caution the young against violating normative social roles and boundaries, tales designed to define communities through fear, reverence, and awe.

Folk tales of the scary sort most often feature monsters, divine beings, legendary beasts, demonic entities, faeries or sprites, cryptids, and others with gifts, curses, or simply tendencies to feed upon the often unbelieving human world. An Exhibit called Terror International: Folk Horror from Around the World can’t possibly represent the entire planet’s history of monstrous and otherwise terrifying lore; we offer a tasting menu, and we start with a flight of a few classic beasties.

Gallery One: Classic Creatures begins with P.N. Harrison’s “Mari Lwyd,” which takes an occasionally lighthearted Welsh folk tradition, the visit of the spectral horse creature “Mari Lwyd” around the December holidays, with deadly seriousness–this legendary figure, which might have Celtic origins, might recall the liberties medieval nobility took with peasants, or might be something else entirely, is a force to fear. The poetry in Patrick W. Marsh’s Stones, Bridges, and Blades: Three Poems of Legend and Lore travels to Ancient Greece, England, and Japan with fresh language and perspective on eerie figures such as the Medusa, trolls, and a wicked samurai sword. Kayla Joy’s “Tell It Again,” inspired by Nordic lore, presents–again–the story of the miracle child who’s a bad seed, and it’s all the more horrifying for the repetition.

We move from these original re-presentations of classic creatures to Gallery Two: Modern Twists, an offering of stories that intertwine the classic with the contemporary to create horrific lore with more immediate relevance. The title of Meg O’Connor’s “Damned If You Float” refers to the Trial By Ordeal of the medieval era in which a woman accused of witchcraft would be weighted and thrown into a river–if she floated, she had supernatural powers, was therefore a witch, and had to be burned, but if she sank and drowned, she was innocent. In O’Connor’s story, according to a relatively recent local legend in the Southern U.S., anyone who crosses paths with a local ghost faces such an unwinnable scenario… a scenario that also damns the culture that creates it. Iluka Chayan’s “The December Booth” combines a detective’s investigation into mysteries surrounding telephones in India’s Yavatmal District of Maharashtra with a dive into deeper, yet related, mysteries… and matters of lore… that threaten to seduce him. In Joseph Hirsch’s “Teufelsrad,” two young women with modern ideas venture into Bavaria to learn the history of the titular carnival ride, The Devil’s Wheel, and wind up in a community invested in ancient lore and, unfortunately, in them.

For Gallery Three: Postmodern Mayhem, we have stories that use folkloric figures not only to reflect on modernity but to disrupt stable notions of reality. Hailing from Igboland, Nigeria, Kasimma animates “Funky D” with demons of no specific origin but of legendary magnitude. They afflict a man with non-human logic and graver threats, undermining his senses of sexuality, temporality, and more. Bryan Stubbles’s “Sundel Bolong + Suster Ngesot,” by contrast, uses specific Indonesian folkloric monsters (mentioned in the title), but their behavior, and the rhythm of the story generally, subvert narrative expectations in favor of gruesome euphoric chaos.

Our ending, Gallery Four: A Cosmic Conclusion, is a nod to the ultimate importance of all folklore, a reckoning with the Beyond. Bigger than any moment of violence, any episode of chaos, is the greater geometry of the universe, the balance. Samuel Kozah, from Kaduna, Nigeria, makes the horror of “The Cattle That Came Back” quiet and subtle, but if you let it sink in, it might devastate you. And speaking of devastation, Christine Lajewski bursts the bindings of the German tradition where her “Mother’s Milk” has the clearest roots, delivering a tale with deep insight and shattering implications.

Have fun on your way to devastation!

Gallery One: Classic Creatures

“Mari Lwyd” (Wales, U.K.) – P.N. Harrison. Western Europe has a host of holiday traditions that never caught on in the United States or anywhere else. One is the rapping skeletal alcoholic hobbyhorse known as Mari Lwyd. Welsh for “Grey Mare,” this peculiar figure’s origins are a bit of a puzzle. Some historians suggest she predates Christianity, likely stemming from Pagan Winter solstice traditions. Others theorize that Mari is heavily tied to the spectral steeds of Celtic myth, figures who themselves are heavily tied to the Welsh underworld goddess Rhiannon. Despite her appearance, Mari Lwyd is often depicted as a jovial figure, a petty troublemaker who travels from door to door demanding food and drink. Homeowners, in response, engage Mari Lwyd in a friendly rhyming game called pwnco and, upon losing, permit her entry. The nature of this custom is what makes P.N. Harrison’s rendition such an effective work of horror, presenting a version of the Grey Mare who is far from benevolent toward those who refuse her entry. 

Stones, Bridges, and Blades: 3 Poems of Legend and Lore (Greece; England, U.K.; Japan) – Patrick W. Marsh. The lines separating myth, legend, and folklore are blurry: the distinctions may derive from the core stories’ ages, ties to religion, or primary means of transmission (while myths and legends are recorded in writings and the arts, folklore is primarily oral). For the purposes of this Exhibit, it’s all lore, but Marsh’s poems capitalize on this blurriness more meaningfully, combining mythical and legendary monsters with the living element of active oral folklore by considering the very relatable perspectives of both victims and monsters. “The Lucky and Broken” addresses the victims of Medusa, probably the most famous monster from the most influential dead religion in western civilization, “Greek mythology,” and wonders about their attitudes. In English lore, the troll, now mostly a figure for children’s literature, is terrifying, as Marsh’s “The Sounds” reminds us, but Marsh brings the troll to life by considering an aspect of its existence not in the legends: its long-term isolation. The final poem (and our favorite), “The Bloody Blade,” is about one of the Youtou demon blades of Japanese folklore, katanas that supposedly had incredible bloodlust and often turned on their masters. The source story is scary; the poem turns it into an exercise in compulsive codependent sadomasochism.

“Tell it Again” (Norway) – Kayla Joy. In Scandinavian folklore, children are sometimes born from the knotholes in pine trees. These children are then delivered by storks to their respective mothers. The concept of arboreal birth is strongly tied to Yggdrasil, the world tree of Norse mythology from which all life on Earth originated, as well as Askr and Embla, the first of the human race who originated from ash and elm trees. The concept, normally portrayed as a blessing, is cleverly inverted in Kayla Joy’s story. Desperate for a child, a woman visits a sacred tree and pulls from its innards a young boy. This supposed miracle spells danger for the rest of her family when the boy shows his true colors. Where most characters in folk horror are roped into the supernatural against their wills, this story’s protagonist is a willing and eager participant, a component that makes this story an emotionally brutal ride. 

Gallery Two: Modern Twists

“Damned If You Float” (Southern United States) – Meg O’Connor. Folklore about avenging spirits is global. The Japanese have their kaidan, or ghost stories, often about vengeful spirits (particularly women with long black hair), yurei who cannot rest. Eastern Europe and Russia have the Rusalka and their equivalents, those who suffered wrongful deaths and transformed into murderous water spirits. Hispanic American folklore has La Llorona, a woman who, after discovering her husband’s infidelity, drowned her two children and now visits damage on all as a volatile ghost. While all this lore involves spirits lashing out after unjust deaths, relatively recent folklore in the United States has often revolved around injustices rooted in politically weighted American prejudices. The example of Candyman, raised in the general introduction, involves realistic lore related to a racist lynching that results in a very angry spirit. Meg O’Connor’s “Damned if You Float” rests on a similar model: in the early twentieth century, a man was lynched for suspicion of being gay, and now, when conjured, he kills straight people and brands gay people with his initials. In the story’s virulently homophobic 1980s Southern U.S. setting, this branding is as good as marking people for death. The lynching of LGBTQ+ people, especially in the American Red States–and the fear of violence that forces LGBTQ+ people to hide–was and is very real, but its history is largely ignored. O’Connor takes a global folkloric archetype’s American mold and refashions it for concerns not spoken of in oral traditions. The results, like a lot of lore, don’t offer easy answers.

“The December Booth” (Maharashtra, India) – Iluka Chayan. Though mostly obsolete after the turn of the century, the Subscriber Trunk Dialing (STD) booths were once a vital component of India’s telecommunications system. These yellow public booths, manned by clerks, offered citizens the ability to make long-distance calls before the rise of mobile phones. Iluka Chayan uses this relic of India’s past as a vehicle for urban folk horror. In “The December Booth,” a Police Inspector in 2022 maintains an unhealthy obsession with an unsolved 2001 murder case. As he reviews the case’s details, his search leads him to the last remaining STD booth in the Devagiri Reserve, where phones are somehow, after all these years, still active. Chayan’s brilliant entry explores how – ancient rites and the old things for which those rites are practiced – endure through contemporary means.

“Teufelsrad” (Bavaria, Germany) – Joseph Hirsch. One of the German Oktoberfest’s more peculiar attractions is the ride after which Hirsch’s story is named. Translated to “Devil’s Wheel,” this horizontal wooden platform is similar to roundabouts on playgrounds. As the wheel’s speed increases, riders struggle to stay on until only one is left standing. This challenge is often combined with hanging obstacles and “Simon says” antics to increase the difficulty. Originating in the early 20th century, the Teufelsrad has since become a beloved staple of Oktoberfest’s revelries. In this story, two American women touring the German countryside attend a small village’s annual festival. As they observe the village’s crass rendition of the Teufelsrad, they soon discover more behind the “devil” in its name. What starts as a traditional take on the occult becomes increasingly shocking as the wheel spins out of control. 

Gallery Three: Postmodern Mayhem

“Funky D” (Igboland, Nigeria) – Kasimma. Kasimma hails from Igboland, southeastern Nigeria, which provides this story’s setting and, presumably, its cultural frame of reference–which makes it tricky. The narrator receives a visit from two self-described “demons,” a word that has connotations of evil in western parlance, but in Igbo lore, supernatural entities don’t tend to abide by a good/evil binary, something western missionaries often imposed on them. The demons, Zaddy and Dear, appear mischievous, but they aren’t necessarily evil… if you follow their non-human logic, they’re simply doing what the narrator has asked (which happens to be horrific). The story, then, plays with western assumptions while it undermines reason itself, crossing into the postmodern as it subverts common conceptions of reality. In the process, it blurs waking and dream–with a play on “wet” dream that embarrasses sexuality–and makes a mockery of time. We’re squarely in the realm of ancient and powerful beings, but we get a story about them with a uniquely contemporary style.

“Sundel Bolong + Suster Ngesot” (Indonesia) – Bryan Stubbles. The monsters in this story are wild and strange, but those qualities alone don’t qualify the story for the “Postmodern Mayhem” gallery. The Sundel Bolong is indeed a monster of Indonesian folklore, usually the ghost of a prostitute who died pregnant or giving birth, and the baby emerged through her back, leaving a hole the spirit later covers with her long hair. Suster Ngesot, perhaps more properly an Indonesian urban legend, is the angry spirit of a murdered nurse who must crawl because a doctor amputated her legs. She has been the subject of multiple Indonesian horror films in recent decades. Stubbles covers the basics about the monsters, but he goes well beyond the basics by telling his story mostly from their perspectives, making their gruesome habits (at least almost) sympathetic, sickly fun. The writing style, on the sentence level and in the entire narrative structure, like the monsters themselves, refuses to behave. It’s all a gleeful mashup, a very contemporary remix, and love is in the air.

Gallery Four: A Cosmic Conclusion

“The Cattle that Came Back” (Northern Nigeria / Kaduna, Nigeria) – Samuel Kozah. Among the many themes and morals within the mythology of Nigeria’s Bajju people is that of equivalent exchange. To receive something of great value, one must offer something of equal or greater value. The Gajimale, for example, are nefarious water spirits of Southern Kaduna who will offer humans riches in exchange for one of their children. This tragic theme – of gaining something and losing something of equal value – lies at the heart of Kozah’s foray into cosmic horror. The story follows Zugwai, a cattle farmer whose herd was stolen and then returned three weeks later by unknown means. While his wife celebrates, Zugwai can’t help but worry; he knows whatever gave him his livelihood back wasn’t human and that it likely didn’t offer its services for free. Kozah’s ruthlessly bleak story features the best kinds of unwilling characters, people who are tangled in the business of higher beings and can do nothing but watch the consequences unfold.

“Mother’s Milk” (Germany, World) – Christine Lajewski. If you think of Lajewski’s main character, The Mother, as the Mother Holle of folklore, a title she considers a reflection of “her demotion by men to a caricature in fairy tale and legend,” you might miss this story’s broad view of history and its equally expansive (though differently horrific) implications for the future. The Mother is a goddess, and men may have downgraded her to the status of folklore witch, but she’s not necessarily out of the divine game. In fact, reading the story, you might consider her as a representation of all goddesses, the divine feminine expelled by the patriarchal, monotheistic religions of The Book (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) that did away with the goddesses of earlier religions as they (or at least the latter two) spread through the world, conquered, and crushed the worship of female deities, turning images of powerful women into occult nasties. Even Hinduism, which reveres the divine feminine, supports patriarchal social rule. Lajewski translates the horror of the historical denigration of women in religion and mythology in ways that support female villainization and subjugation into body horror, the physical dissolution of the Mother and the rot of her milk, and then she pulls a reversal–which you’ll have to fathom on your own–that suggests there have been severe, and soon will be worse, consequences for the entire world for forgetting about the cosmic significance of the maternal.