By Kellie Schorr
Dharma in the Dark is a six-article series exploring how horror movie tropes and clichés can show us some life basics found in Buddhist teachings.

It’s a misty, fog-swept night in the deep woods.

The kind of night where the moon is just a sickle of silver behind bare branches. The air is wet with the breath of fear. The young man runs, his hoodie torn. Sweat clings to his neck like calloused fingers. Stumbling through the brush, Chris gasps, heart hammering.

“Come on, come on,” he begs his legs, praying they won’t give out.

His breath is a frozen metronome.

His phone is dead.

Behind him, a killer s-l-o-w-l-y walks.

Jason Voorhees doesn’t chase. He doesn’t shout. The only sound from him is his boots making a steady squelching sound through the mud. Step. Pause. Step. The camera lingers on the blade in his hand—heavy, inevitable.

Crashing behind the shed, Chris presses his back against the wall. Gasping. Trembling. Praying. Finally, for a moment, the world is still. He closes his eyes and opens them.

Jason is there.

No sound. No sprinting. Just standing there, machete gleaming in the moonlight.

All Chris can do is scream.

HOW?

It’s the age-old question of slasher films. How can the villains move so slowly—lumbering through the woods or house or alley—while healthy, athletic college-age hotties frantically scream, scurry, and race, only to find themselves face to face with the killer?

Why can’t a sprinter with a beach body and two-hundred-dollar shoes outrun a raggedy sleepwalker weighed down by thick boots and fifteen pounds of murder gear?

The Unstoppable End

There’s something uncanny about the way slasher killers move. They don’t hustle. They don’t break a sweat. While their victims flail, scream, sprint, and fall apart, the killer walks like death on a lunch break.

But it works. Every time.

The killer knows something we try so hard to forget: they don’t have to run. They know, no matter how slow they go, they will take a life—eventually.

In Buddhism, death, loss, endings – aren’t punishments. They’re truths. Everything changes. Everything ends. Youth fades. Relationships shift. Loved ones die. Even the stars burn out, eventually.

What do we do?

We run around like Chris in the woods. We sprint toward sunscreen and superfoods, new jobs, new partners, enlightenment weekends, that one podcast that will finally explain the meaning of life. We shop and indulge or tie ourselves to homes and responsibilities, thinking the necessity of us will surely keep the quiet truth at bay.

Then we turn around and—BAM—there it is.

Impermanence doesn’t care about your step count or your strategy. It doesn’t hate you. It’s not cruel. It’s just… coming.

Movement Isn’t the Same as Freedom

Why do we run so hard and in so many directions? Because we think it might save us. If we can only move fast enough, hide well enough, pray hard enough, we might just survive. So, we fill our calendars to the brim and treat “being busy” like a talisman. We can spend our whole lives on autopilot—hearts racing, chasing safety we can’t even define. We are asleep. And while we sleep, we are moving through a nightmare.

It’s time to wake up.

Buddhism doesn’t teach us not to move—but to move with awareness. Meditation won’t help you by turning you into a stone statue in the middle of chaos. It helps by sitting you still long enough to notice what’s true. To feel what’s real. To stop running and start living.

Mortal panic is just another form of delusion. And like every bad slasher decision, it only gets you killed.

Stop, Breathe, and See

The dharma we learn from every plodding slasher out there is that impermanence will find you. That’s not a threat. That’s a gift.

When we accept that everything changes, we stop trying to hoard the present like it’ll last forever. We stop clutching every moment in a white-knuckled grip. We stop buying lies that promise permanence in a temporary world.

Instead, we start seeing.

You see that joy is precious because it’s fleeting. You see that grief is sacred because it speaks of love. You see that the chipped mug you drink tea from every morning is a kind of altar.

You stop fearing the machete in the woods. You stop running toward the next thing. You stop hiding behind sheds and wishing for a pause. You stop trying to win the game and just… play.

You cherish your dog’s soft ears. The way your partner leaves the light on when you’re late. The way sunlight dusts the kitchen floor in the morning. The incredible preciousness of your human life.

You stop running.

And you start living.

Cue the Credits

Slasher films operate in a particular niche in the horror genre. We don’t have to guess who the killer is. We’re not overly concerned with why they’re doing it. By the end of the film, they’ve racked up some (hopefully) creative kills, and the final girl—or final guy—has made it out alive.

But even then, when life has found a way, we can’t shake the feeling that a sequel is already filming.

So don’t wait for the next act.

Live like the lights are up, the popcorn’s gone, and the machete missed you this time.

Be still. Be aware. Be here.

Life’s too short to spend it screaming behind the shed.

 

Authors note:  Horror can teach messages such things as living with grief (The Babadook, Hereditary, Don’t Look Now), dealing with family trauma (The Haunting of Hill House, The Witch,  The Invisible Man [2020]), the reality of systemic racism (Get Out, Us, Nope), the harm from fanatical devotion to religious certainty (The Mist, Heretic, The Wicker Man [1973]) or the horror women endure in a culture obsessed with youth and beauty (The Substance, The Picture of Dorian Grey, Death Becomes Her).

Is there a movie you want to talk about or you’d like an article about? Let me know at KellieSchorr.com

 

Photo: Pixabay

Editor: Dana Gornall

 

Were you inspired by this? You may also like:

The Girl Who Runs Up The Stairs: How This Horror Movie Trope Helps Us Cope with Political Chaos

Exploring the Haunted House: Walking the Path of Unresolved Trauma

 

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