Editorials
[Editorial] The Emotional Rise of Cosmic Horror
The phrase “cosmic horror” conjures up images of massive tentacled beasts that defy all aspects of human understanding. Monsters created by author H.P. Lovecraft, such as Cthulhu, Dagon, and Shub-Niggurath, drive those that see them into madness, driven insane by their pure incomprehensibility. Their massive size, many limbs, innumerable eyeballs, and unnatural forms only amplify their horrific nature, making humans realize their insignificance in the universe. It is a genre that allows for speculation and questions about what it means to be human, especially in the face of these monsters. Lovecraft defined his own genre of writing as “the fundamental premise that common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large.” He continues to say that as these stories “cross the line to the boundless and hideous unknown—the shadow-haunted Outside—we must remember to leave our humanity—and terrestrialism at the threshold.” But even with Lovecraft spelling it out, this leaves so much room for interpretation, particularly in the world of horror films.
Previous iterations of cinematic cosmic horror rely heavily on the gore and the monstrous, creating a spectacle around the destruction of the human body at the hands of creatures or otherworldly beings. Take Paul W.S. Anderson’s 1997 film, Event Horizon for example. Perhaps not the most well made movie, but it is a shining example of certain aspects of cosmic horror, especially because it takes place on a spaceship that opens a literal portal to another dimension (which ends up being hell). When the portal is opened and Dr. William Weir (Sam Neill) looks inside, he literally gouges out his eyes, unable to stand the sight of this interdimensional truth. Other examples of the Lovecraftian cosmic horror include In the Mouth of Madness, The Thing, The Void, and The Mist.
However, there seems to be a recent shift in the genre. For the purposes of this piece, I’ll be looking at the inclusion of interdimensional alien beings that throw humans into chaos that therefore open up possibilities within themselves to navigate their emotions and relationships. Lovecraft may have said human emotions don’t have a purpose in the bigger cosmic picture, but recent horror films have inverted this model to make their narratives more focused on the purpose of human emotions rather than invalidating them.
Recent films such as Starfish and The Endless have leaned into this emotional aspect to create films that use horror as a backdrop to discussions of grief, love, and being human. They have adopted these tropes to create a new kind of cosmic horror that is more contemplative and relies less on gore and more on the emotional effects of being confronted with a maddening unknown. Sure, there are monsters, but they are vehicles for more internal contemplation rather than spectacles around the abject body.
A.T. White’s 2019 film, Starfish, is a prime example of this shift within cosmic horror. The film is centered on Aubrey (Virginia Gardner), who is mourning the recent death of her best friend. In an attempt to heal, she heads to her friend’s apartment to look through her belongings and relish in the memories. She finds a cassette tape labeled, ‘This Mixtape Will Save the World.’ Unknowingly, she unleashes a mysterious signal that opens an unknown dimension that lets a variety of monsters into our world. So now she must collect the rest of the cassette tapes to somehow close this interdimensional portal and save humanity.
But even with strange beasts of varying sizes running rampant, Starfish is not about their consumption of humans; instead, they are tangential to a more meaningful story about a woman trying to feel more connected to her dead friend. Throughout Starfish, transitional spaces are created by the strange radio signals. As she plays songs with the signal embedded within them, she is transported to another place, or dimension. These moments of transportation, while incomprehensible, are used to access a deeper part of her emotions, whether that be love for her friend or shame due to a past relationship. It is only through these spaces that she is able to begin to understand her past actions and try to decipher them. Since her friend is so linked to these events, this also allows her to become closer to her friend in a way. This cosmic event provides a way for their friendship to continue and even grow as she navigates the snowy town to find each of these tapes.
Then there is Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead’s 2017 film, The Endless. Benson and Moorhead are no strangers to cosmic horror as their previous film, Spring, is a love story meets cosmic body horror. However, The Endless takes a different approach to the genre, opting for the contemplation of brotherhood in the face of an unknown alien entity rather than romance and body horror. Benson and Moorhead play two brothers, Justin and Aaron, respectively, who are trying to live normal lives after escaping a UFO death cult. In trying to continuously pick up the pieces of their life post-cult, their relationship is strained, and mysteries drive a schism between them. It is only through returning to their childhood compound that they can understand their past and somehow start to fix their lives.
Again, like with Starfish, the possible interdimensional alien being is tangential to a larger story about family and reconciling past trauma. As Justin and Aaron wander through the arid cult ranch, greeting old friends, they are also able to recognize the strains in their relationship. Without the potential (and eventually confirmed) existence of some greater alien life, these two brothers wouldn’t be able to heal and understand each other’s actions. Only here can Justin confess to going public about the ranch and telling a few white lies to protect his brother. And only with this confession can Aaron understand Justin’s intentions and what he’d do to protect his brother. It is through the realization of some other form of life that Aaron can realize reconciliation is possible. Sometimes, a giant extraterrestrial being can be a gateway to connection, and not just a pathway to destruction.
These two films open up possibilities and ways to understand our own emotions, especially grief, whether it is for a friend or for a life never had. Grief has always been prevalent in horror films, with the genre playing into the many facets and terrifying aspects of what it means to grapple with grief. So it only makes sense to incorporate grief into cosmic horror, inverting its typical structure into something more human-centric than creature-centric. The unexplainable throws characters into states of chaos and confusion but also allows them to expand their minds and look at a bigger emotional picture.
This isn’t just about their own small insular worldview anymore—there’s something bigger at hand that lets them reassess and try to understand their own reality.
Art featured at the top of this article comes courtesy of Francois Baranger.
There’s a lot of reading left to do in 2026, between the glut of summer releases and the approach of fall, when horror titles get a special push from publishers, but this has already been an incredible year for horror literature.
Some of the biggest names in the genre have turned in outstanding work, rising stars have made their mark, and we’re only halfway through the year.
To celebrate the midway point of 2026, with plenty of horror books still to come, we’re taking a look back at the best horror books we’ve read this year so far, listed alphabetically by author.
If you missed any of these books earlier in the year, consider this your reminder to catch up.
Japanese Gothic by Kylie Lee Baker
A student running from a crime he may or may not have committed escapes to his father’s country home in Japan, only to find himself haunted by strange apparitions, while in the past, a young samurai tries to find salvation for her family and finds a door to the future instead. Kylie Lee Baker’s Japanese Gothic begins with this dialogue between past and present, and then blossoms into so much more, a cross-time ghost story about old wounds and what it really takes to finally heal them. I got so happily lost in this one that I would have read at least 200 more pages.
Persona by Aoife Josie Clements
In this tale of shut-ins, sex workers, artists, and the horrors they both summon and recoil from, Aoife Josie Clements weaves something that feels less like a story to be experienced and more like a psychic wound to be endured, and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. Evocative in its prose and nightmarish in its imagery, Persona is a story of the masks we wear, and the understanding that not all of our masks are particularly pretty or even easy to breathe through. It’s a dense, literary, unnervingly vicious book, and while it’s already attracted an audience, it deserves a much bigger one.
Dead First by Johnny Compton
Johnny Compton’s latest novel opens with a throwing down of the gauntlet, a sequence that made me instantly think “How on Earth is he going to top this?” It’s a story that begins with a billionaire hiring a private investigator to determine why, despite trying in many brutal ways, he cannot die. That premise, and the scene which sets it all off, is so alluring and delightfully gruesome that you almost can’t believe it’s the way a book begins, and then Compton just keeps going, delivering a supernatural mystery that I could not put down.
Make Me Better by Sarah Gailey
A woman grieving for the life she wanted visits a mysterious island renowned for the healing salt its residents harvest and sell, seeking renewal and relief. What she finds instead is a strange cult with a twisted history with surprising resonance in her own life, and a people who are more than willing to grant the relief she wants, for a price. Laced with beautiful prose and moments of profound realization alongside folk and even cosmic horror, this is vintage Sarah Gailey.
Partially Devoured by Daniel Kraus
If you love horror film history and analysis, Partially Devoured is an essential. Written by Pulitzer Prize-winner Daniel Kraus, the book is a deep dive into his favorite movie of all time, George A. Romero‘s Night of the Living Dead, complete with exhaustive research into the making of the film and passages of deeply moving memoir woven in. If you’ve ever wanted to know what the eerie music that opens the film is called while also bursting into tears at how horror movies can save your life, this is a must-read.
Wretch by Eric LaRocca
Our reigning King of Extreme Horror, Eric LaRocca weaves books of uncommon beauty out of the most nightmarish parts of humanity, and Wretch is no exception. The story of a grieving man who longs for relief and searches for it amid a strange support group that might be a cult, Wretch is a brutal journey into the darkest part of us all, and explores what salvation we might find when we get to the rotten core of the world and peel back its layers. LaRocca’s on a tear of great work right now that few other genre writers can match.
Headlights by CJ Leede
A mystery, a serial killer horror show, a tribute to Stephen King‘s The Shining. All of these things describe CJ Leede’s Headlights, and yet they don’t begin to cover the full breadth of horror awaiting you in this novel. The story of a former FBI agent drawn back into the cold case that haunts him most, it’s a shocker brimming over with vivid moments that’ll live behind your eyes. CJ Leede has now published three novels, and they’re all bangers, so it’s time to get on board if you haven’t already.
It Came From Neverland by Cynthia Pelayo
Cynthia Pelayo has been one of our finest genre writers for years now, but It Came From Neverland is my favorite thing she’s written, and it’s not even close. A dark take on Peter Pan from the perspective of an adult Wendy Darling living in World War I-era London, Pelayo’s book works as both a satisfying horror narrative and a rich exploration of what it really means to never grow up. The horror never loses its potency, but it’s the search for the meaning behind the Peter Pan phenomenon in our own lives, and what we can do about it, that sticks with me most.
Filth Eaters by Ito Romo
Ito Romo’s Filth Eaters is a slim volume, one you can read in just a couple of hours if you’ve got the inclination, but it has the feel of a generation-spanning epic. The story of a breed of vampires born in Central America, the European vampires who encounter them, and the offspring they eventually produced, it spans centuries and packs loads of juicy lore into its pages while never losing its grip on character and narrative drive. I would read hundreds more pages of this world, but I’ll settle for this uncommonly grand-scale novella for now.
Dead But Dreaming of Electric Sheep by Paul Tremblay
A former pro gamer gets a job at a tech company to pilot a brain-dead human body across the country, and so Paul Tremblay’s sci-fi-horror juggernaut begins. Indebted to Philip K. Dick, the primal snarl of Harlan Ellison, and the quirky comedy of The Big Lebowski, and yet wholly original, this is a towering and ambitious novel by one of horror’s most respected voices. What starts as a high-concept tech thriller soon becomes a startling meditation on the value of stories, who gets to tell them, and what happens when we cede too much control to machines we don’t understand. It’s a stunner.
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