History,Horror,and Peak TV: Experimental History Series

Then and Now: Horror on the Small Screen

“Horror has not fared particularly well on TV, if you can except something like the six o’clock news,” opined the popular and prolific horror writer Stephen King (1981 (1993), 250). The unreal horrors of fiction programing, he argued, not only paled in comparison to the true horrors of the nightly news but had to adhere to federal regulations and were subject to the influence of advertisers. Television horror was “a lot of sizzle and no steak” (p. 254). King has not been alone in labeling television an inadequate home for horror; Waller (1987) likewise identified shortfalls including budgetary constraints, inferior special effects, and poor picture quality. On top of these considerations, TV horrors are viewed in the warm, cozy confines of the family room with ad-breaks regularly disrupting the narrative. King and Waller’s views are often discussed by horror TV scholars who then proceed to offer a counterargument: Yes, there were regulations, and television horrors relied more on suggestion than the visual, but it has always been a fixture on television schedules with anthology series such as Alfred Hitchcock Presents (CBS/NBC, 1955–1962), Thriller (NBC, 1961–1962), The Outer Limits (ABC, 1963–1965), and The Twilight Zone (CBS, 1959–1964) provided as common examples (Abbott and Jowett 2013; Hart 2019; Jancovich 2018; Schmidt 2013; Wheatley 2006).

The debate over horror on television is in part shaped by how the genre is defined. One of the most enduring descriptions of horror comes from Carroll (1990) who differentiates between “art-horror” and “art-dread.” Each provokes a distinct emotional response in the audience. In art-horror “some non-ordinary physical state of agitation is caused by the thought of a monster,” Carroll explains, that is recognized to be “threatening and impure” (p. 36). While both categories can involve the supernatural and otherworldly, “art-horror involves disgust as a central feature,” while art-dread does not (p. 42). As Hills (2005) points out, if applying this set of criteria, it is unsurprising that TV horror comes up short. Given the limitations of television esthetics during the network era and era of multi-channel transition, horror on TV had little chance to disgust and repel. ² Rather, television horrors were more adept at creating a haunting mood and generating a sense of dread that did not outright horrify audiences. If one expands the definition of horror and includes, for example, the gothic, which often generates fear through implied horrors, then horror becomes more prominent on TV across the decades.

Television has changed immeasurably since King and Waller were writing in 1980s and many of the obstacles to horror on TV that they identify no longer exist, evident in the increase in horror programing and its popularity. The new economies of the post-2010 TV industry, Gaynor (2022) contends, “pushed the use of genre-based serial drama to the forefront of the industrial strategy” and “made horror viable” (14). Proliferating channels and, more recently, streaming services, resulted in a shift from broadcasting to narrowcasting, a trend that has become increasingly pronounced. The era of Peak TV, which began around 2015, saw more scripted shows being made in the US than ever before. ³ Appealing to the largest possible audience with the least objectionable programing was no longer standard industry practice; instead, networks and streamers sought to produce niche content that drew a dedicated audience. Subscription services (streaming and cable) are also not governed by the rules of the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) in terms of content, nor are they beholden to advertiser dollars which has resulted in more explicit horror imagery making its way on to television. Consequently, horror shows of the Peak TV period fit into both the art-horror and art-dread categories, containing both “sizzle” and “steak.” As budgets have grown, production values and special effects on TV have become the equal of cinema. The grotesque and gory scenes shot for television are most likely viewed on high-resolution television sets, laptops, or tablets, so every creature and drop of blood is seen in crystal-clear detail. Horror is undoubtedly thriving on television, with Abbott (2018) declaring the post-2000 period a “new Golden Age of TV Horror” (p. 120).

While some perceived limitations remain—specifically the domestic setting and potential for distraction—other factors make television an ideal medium for the horror genre. ⁴ The longer running time gives writers the ability to more fully develop characters and weave in layers of conflict and storylines that may not be explicitly horror related. Viewers become more emotionally invested than they otherwise would in a horror narrative. Hart (2019) argues that television is at the forefront of “integrated horror” that privileges “narrative and character development over more immediate sensationalist aims” (p. 173). Horror TV can be categorized as such because it tells “stories with and about monsters” (p. 175) rather than frightening audiences and shocking them in a bodily way. Hart suggests that series like The Walking Dead (AMC, 2010–2022) and Bates Motel (A&E, 2013–2017), are classified as horrors because the subjects (zombies, psychopathic killers) are horror-related, rather than because they frighten viewers. In the case of The Walking Dead, the fact that the show went on for so long contributed to a sense of mundanity. Zombies are only frightening for so long before a resistance is built up. However, Hart does note that, along with character depth and narrative complexity, showrunners are starting to become “more adventurous in terms of jump scares and spectacle” (p. 180). There is, I believe, a sweet spot when it comes to horror TV that sits at around ten episodes or one season. It provides the length of time needed to develop storylines and characters but is not so drawn out in length that it becomes hard to maintain a combination of jump scares and/or explicit body horror alongside an unsettling atmosphere. Successful examples include the anthology series American Horror Story (FX, 2011–) which generally tells an independent story each season, and the works of showrunner Mike Flanagan who has made a name for himself crafting limited series like The Haunting of Hill House (Netflix, 2018), The Haunting of Bly Manor (Netflix, 2020), Midnight Mass (Netflix, 2021), and The Fall of the House of Usher (Netflix, 2023).

The horror series that have been chosen for discussion were all produced during the Peak TV period and generally fit into this category, consisting of single seasons that tell a discrete story. ⁵ The Terror (AMC, 2018–2019) and Them (2021–) are both anthology series and Lovecraft Country (HBO, 2020) essentially became a ten episode limited series after being canceled at the end of its first season. Many horror TV shows engage with the past in some way, often to explore the origin of the evil in flashbacks or stand-alone episodes. While most of the The Haunting of Bly Manor, for example, takes place in the 1980s, episode 8 is set centuries earlier and reveals the origins of the malevolent spirit haunting the titular house; in True Blood (HBO, 2008–2014) flashbacks across the seasons show how Bill Compton, a Confederate soldier, became a vampire. However, these shows cannot be considered historical in the same way as The Terror, Them, and Lovecraft Country because historical realities are incidental at best and peripheral to the main storylines. Like Carroll (1990), I have limited my discussion of horror to series that feature some sort of preternatural element, therefore eliminating shows that focus exclusively on human menaces. The “inherently hybrid nature of television” (Abbott and Jowett 2013, xii) means that all the shows crossover into other genres but the inclusion of otherworldly creatures, alongside an atmosphere of dread and a combination of jump-scares and gore, ultimately quantifies them as horrors. Lovecraft Country, the most hybrid of all the case-studies, is a horror-fantasy-science-fiction-family drama with individual episodes that lean into different genres and sub-genres. Episode 2 elaborates on the fantasy elements of the storyline, while episode 4 focuses on a Goonies-style adventure, and episode 7 is rooted firmly in science fiction. These non-horror fictions can also serve to pull viewers out of the narrative and encourage historical thinking. However, it is the affective nature of horror that makes it a particularly fruitful vehicle for experimental history, which is the common thread uniting each of these case-study texts.

Experimental TV Horrors of the Peak TV Period

What makes Lovecraft Country, Them and both seasons of The Terror experimental histories, rather than horrors simply set in the past, is the centrality of history to the narrative and the use of horror to illuminate a historical story. Lovecraft Country, Them and The Terror: Infamy (from this point on, Infamy) examine the lived experience of racial minorities in mid-Century America through invented characters and scenarios that are rooted in historical discourse. Set in the 1950s, Lovecraft Country centers around Atticus “Tic” Freeman, a Black Korean War veteran who embarks on a quest to find his missing father and, in the process, uncovers a dark family legacy. The show predominately takes place on the South Side of Chicago and, in tandem with the fantasy/horror storyline, documents the racism leveled at African Americans by businesses, police, and white citizens. Certain episodes illuminate a particular facet of racism: episode 3, for example, centers on Leticia “Leti” Lewis’s purchase of a house on the all-white North side and chronicles the violence and hatred directed at the Black household, while episode 5 focuses on her sister’s magical transformation from black woman to white woman and back again, and the different employment opportunities she has in each form. The show also acknowledges the long history of racism and violence that African Americans have faced through the inclusion of time travel in episode 9 which sees the characters go to Tulsa, Oklahoma and witness the 1921 race massacre. Even Tic’s heritage as the descendant of the founder of an ancient order of wizards, is implied to be the result of the rape of a slave. Although it is not as wide-ranging and as detailed in its rendering of historical issues, Them similarly presents audiences with an interpretation of mid-century racism, particularly in the realm of real estate and housing. In the first episode, the opening titles lay out the basics of the Great Migration and situate the show’s central characters: “On September 14, 1953, Henry and Livia ‘Lucky’ Emory moved their family from Chatham County, North Carolina to Compton, California. The following occurred over 10 days in the family’s new home at 3011 Palmer Drive.” The Emory’s find their path to the American Dream blocked by both vicious neighbors and supernatural forces. In Infamy, the Nakayama family, along with close friends and neighbors, face the horrors of Japanese internment during World War Two while also contending with a vengeful yurei (spirit).

The Terror’s historical focus differs from the rest, as does its connection to history. Unlike the main characters of Lovecraft Country, Them and Infamy, The Terror’s protagonists are based on real men, including the explorers Sir John Franklin and Francis Crozier. The show’s historical setting is also much more specific, recounting a single documented event—the 1845 expedition to find the North-West passage. A great amount of invention is still employed as little is known about many of the sailors on board the HMS Terror and HMS Erebus or what exactly happened before they all perished. And, of course, there is the addition of the mysterious Tuunbaq creature that pursues the vessels relentlessly across the ice. Rather than race, this season of The Terror captures the realities of being a seaman the mid-nineteenth century. Hierarchies on board, the dangers of the job, as well as the mental and physical hardships suffered by the men are explored in detail. Lovecraft Country, Them and Infamy also touch upon documented events and historical figures to differing degrees: Them only rarely refers to historical events, while Lovecraft Country and Infamy regularly allude to or include actual events and persons. As these examples demonstrate, an experimental history series can approach the historical record in many ways; there is no single correct formula, although they do share some key characteristics.

At the most basic level, each show contains a preternatural element, a fiction that automatically serves as a reminder of the narrative’s artifice. It is a rudimentary yet ingenious way of demonstrating that “the past is a foreign country,” and that what we are witnessing is a fabrication (Landsberg 2015, 65). Although the pilot episode of Lovecraft Country is filled with examples of human horror—racial discrimination and prejudice—it’s not until the end of the episode that shoggoths, the first of the show’s many supernatural horrors, are revealed. Tic, Leti, and Uncle George are at the mercy of the police when a round gaping maw filled with rows of sharp teeth appears and rips the arm off one of the officers, sending the characters and the audience into a frenzy. Infamy’s horror is more ghostly in nature and draws upon the esthetics of J-horror classics such as Ringu (Nakata 1998). The yurei’s spirit can possess the living and manipulate their bodies, while she can also appear in a deteriorating human form. The malevolent evil that haunts the Emorys in Them appears to each family member in a different guise, bringing to life each character’s deepest fears and desires, including a bubbly white teenager and a deformed minstrel. The Terror holds back for the full first episode before briefly revealing the Tuunbaq creature, an abnormally large and intelligent polar bear who stalks the sailors across the Arctic ice. Although a literal retelling of history is never possible, the addition of fictious creatures clearly highlights that this is not meant to be understood as a completely “true” version of events. It is harder for viewers to slip into an unquestioning identification with the past when monsters and spirits cohabit the screen with humans.

Horror’s ability to affect the audience in a bodily way can also help to maintain audience distance. The fact that horror can make some viewers jump, gasp, and tense up in their armchairs is part of the reason why they are drawn to the genre and, conversely, why others are put off. “Horror is an exercise in recreational terror, a simulation of danger not unlike a roller-coaster ride,” Pinedo (2004, 106) explains. Because it is a “bounded experience,” and we are aware it is an illusion rather than reality, “fear and pleasure commingle” (pp. 106–107). Audiences can enjoy the thrills horror texts evoke because they are experiencing them in a safe space such as a movie theater or a living room. The reaction that horror elicits, its “sensational address,” (Hart 2019, 22) has an important impact on the audience and the text’s ability to encourage historical thinking. Drawing upon Christian Metz, Hart concludes that “scares engender a unique mode of spectatorship: when the sensational address is effective, it works counter to narrative ‘absorption’” (p. 36). Viewers can get so involved in the story that their body reacts, but when it does, they become aware of their own response and that pulls them out of the diegesis. This may happen multiple times across the narrative (pp. 36–38).

Lovecraft Country, Them, and both seasons of The Terror span a range of horror subgenres and employ a number of cinematic techniques to generate affective responses. Most of the shows feature body horror, dwelling upon the mutilation and destruction of the human form. The visual effects, thanks to advances in technology and healthy TV budgets, render the images in beautiful, sickening detail. Lovecraft Country’s use of gore, particularly Ruby’s multiple transformations from Hillary, a white woman, back into her own skin, is stomach churning. A particularly gruesome transformation appears in episode 5: Hillary’s skin ripples and contorts, and a sharp snap of her head sends half the skin on her face splashing onto the brick wall behind her. Wet, mushy sound effects accompany close ups of chunks of flesh sliding off Hillary’s body, exposing a raw, oozing mess. Writhing in pain, Hillary/Ruby pulls down her skin likes she’s changing her clothes until, finally, just Ruby emerges, saturated with red goo and shaky on her feet. This body horror, as well as the severed limbs and mutilated bodies of the seamen on The Terror, may cause some viewers to avert their gaze and/or cover their ears to escape the diegesis completely. It may elicit a verbal response as they groan or exclaim, or it might cause a particularly susceptible viewer to feel queasy in the pit of their stomach. Whether it elicits an uncomfortable laugh or a violent shudder, the horrific imagery will likely pull viewers out of the storyworld.

A bodily reaction is not only elicited by gross-out visuals; it can also be caused by a jump scare or by the creation of an eerie atmosphere. The Terror is part body horror, monster horror, and survival horror, but its sensational address is often more subtle than the other shows. It is the atmosphere of isolation and the constant awareness of a largely unseen foe stalking the Erebus and Terror that elicits goosebumps and chills. These sensations are enhanced by the extreme wintry conditions that have been perfectly rendered by the production design and make-up teams. Many of the show’s most evocative scenes, particularly in the first half of the series, take place on the decks of the ice-locked Terror and Erebus. The men keep a constant watch, with their red noses and pinched faces peeking out from small gaps in their uniforms. At night, the ship is engulfed in absolute darkness, while during the day, the white sky and landscape blend together. Day or night, the Tuunbaq remains invisible to those on the deck, who strain desperately to find the foe that sneaks up and rips the unsuspecting to shreds. Them relies most heavily on jump scares to frighten the audience. In episode 2, for example, Henry Emory slips into a dream-like world while roaming the corridors at work. The hallways slowly transform from a sterile white to a sickly sepia. A high-pitched droning is overlayed with a deeper wall of sound that evokes human whispers, creaky floorboards, and mechanical hissing. The camera alternates between close-ups of Henry’s face and point of view shots showing us a small interior window as he walks toward it. As he stares into the smoke-filled room, the soundtrack shifts once again to a haunting 1940s jazz tune that is suddenly interrupted by a loud bang. Where there were only vapors a millisecond before, now there is an angry, disfigured man, hands pressed against the glass. As Cherry (2009) outlines, these sound and cinematography techniques have “become tropes of the genre, and are thus subconsciously recognized by the audience, creating certain feelings of horror and expectations of dread” (p. 69). Even though we may be prepared for a shock, it’s almost impossible to not jump given the combination of sound and visuals.

Whether the scares are gross, sudden, or eerie, these “moments of interruption can be intellectually productive” (Landsberg 2018, 632). The horrors not only pull viewers out of the storyworld but connect and contribute to the historical narrative. Ruby’s transformation, unlike in most body-swapping films, is both disgusting and excruciatingly painful, yet she voluntarily shifts into the white skin multiple times. As Hillary, Ruby effortlessly secures a position at a department store; she is recognized for the qualities she possesses rather than judged by the color of her skin and is hired as an assistant manager. The pain that Ruby experiences during the shift back to her own body recalls David’s classic transformation into a werewolf in An American Werewolf in London (Landis, 1981). In fact, it may be more accurate to describe her change not as a body swap, but as a metamorphosis into a monster. Similar to a lycanthrope, Ruby experiences a sense of uninhibited freedom and power in her altered form. When she finds out that one of the managers at the department store is sexually harassing and assaulting the only Black retail clerk, Ruby unleashes the “beast within” and enacts a swift and violent punishment that she would not have attempted in her own skin. The extreme body horror and the ensuing monster transformation storyline underscores the many kinds of discrimination faced by African Americans, especially African American women. Ruby’s willingness to pay a gruesome price assures that the audience does not take her decisions and actions for granted.

Likewise, Them’s jump scare builds upon a historical trauma foregrounded in episode 2. In an extended flashback to 1946, we see Henry, newly home from his service during World War II, jumpy, short-tempered, and struggling to readjust to family life. He explains to Lucky that as a Black soldier he was not considered “battle ready,” and so he and other Black recruits were used for mustard and nerve gas experiments. In 1953, Henry seems to have reacclimated, but either the evils of his new home follow him to work, or the stresses of starting a new job in a hostile environment bring this history back to him. The facially deformed, uniform-clad ghost from his past becomes a literal specter that shocks the audience out of the narrative, and in doing so, draws attention to Henry’s ongoing mistreatment, whether by the American government or private industry. Ruby’s transformation in Lovecraft Country and the jump scare in Them are just two examples that illustrate how “the formal mechanics of horror” can be used “not for cheap thrills, but to advance a point” (Landsberg 2018, 635). Indeed, Landsberg (2018) argues that specific cinematic elements in horror films are well-suited for exposing the everyday horrors often overlooked in American society. What she calls “horror verité” has the potential to provoke thought among the audience, aligning with the goal of raising awareness or consciousness. It accomplishes this, in part, by rendering the familiar as unfamiliar.

In the case of experimental TV histories, seeing history play out against unorthodox and unfamiliar backdrops may prompt viewers to reflect upon the past and examine it more critically. Over the course of each episode and season, viewers weigh up the threats faced by the protagonists, assessing what they think is the most important and what poses the most danger. When Tic, Leti and Uncle George are held at gunpoint by the police for no other reason than their skin color, and the shoggoths burst onto the scene, there is an initial physical jolt, relief (however brief) that the protagonists have been at least temporarily saved, and then puzzlement over how monsters could be less threatening than police. The horror that the shoggoths produce adheres to Pinedo’s (2004) concept of “bounded” terror; the audience can recognize the fiction and enjoy the frissons of terror these creatures provoke. The same is true for bounded terrors of the Tuunbaq, yurei, and the demonic entity in The Terror, Infamy, and Them respectively. In contrast, the human and historical elements can be described as “unbounded” terror; a type of horror rooted in the real world which holds no pleasure and will not evaporate at the end of the story. The audience does not simply identify with Tic, Leti and Uncle George and the fear that they feel in the moment of confrontation with police when the shoggoths arrive. The terrors are experienced simultaneously: the bounded terror of the shoggoths snaps viewers out of the storyworld and encourages critical evaluation of the unbounded terror the police posed to Black citizens in this period—and, by extension, today.

Bounded terrors are employed to make fresh and startling the unbounded terrors of history and can impact the audience in differing ways. Given the number of recent real-world events that have highlighted police brutality, the danger that the police pose to the Black characters in Lovecraft Country is unsurprising, and could, in fact, go without much notice. The Atlantic critic Giorgis (2020) has argued that Lovecraft Country “simplifies the realities of white supremacy with its monster allegory,” and while she makes some salient points, the addition of the supernatural does serve a purpose (para 5). Giorgis herself acknowledges the rise in “social justice entertainment”—books, TV shows and films—that consider the “threats that institutional racism poses to Black life in America” (para 7). For many viewers, the realities of Civil Rights era racism and insidious forms of modern racism will likely be very familiar. Lovecraft Country, along with Them, approaches mid-twentieth century racism by defamiliarizing its place in American history, forcing the audience to negotiate between bounded and unbounded terrors and experience the history as if for the first time. The dual threats in Them—the ghostly specters and dark corners of the Emory family’s new home, as well as the white neighbors and colleagues that populate the seemingly picture perfect Compton—are quickly established. For most of the series it is unclear which poses the greatest threat and audiences are kept in a state of suspense. For viewers who are less aware of America’s racial past and may look back upon the “Good War” and 1950s America as an idyllic Golden Age, Infamy, Lovecraft Country, and Them work to dispel such simplistic notions. Exploring these periods in the horror genre undermines the nostalgic messages and imagery presented across Hollywood World War II films and 1950s family sitcoms. These Peak TV horrors do not aim to “make Americans proud of the nation’s glorious past,” but instead “encourage citizens to reflect on its moral failings” and, as such, contribute to America’s ongoing culture wars (Hartman 2019, 7).

The ability to explore both bounded supernatural terrors and unbounded historical terrors is enhanced by the structure and longer running time of television narratives. All four shows are serials, meaning that character arcs and storylines develop over the course of the season. The episode is still an important storytelling unit, allowing the creators to highlight different character perspectives (Lovecraft Country), shift between genres and subgenres (Lovecraft Country), and focus on origin stories (Them). Even though The Terror and Infamy tend to have a more consistent episode structure, each episode works as an individual unit while contributing to the overarching narrative, not unlike a chapter in a book. With the exception of episode 6, which is weighted more toward horror, each episode of Infamy balances the bounded terrors of the yurei with the unbounded terrors of internment. The central storyline spans four years, from Pearl Harbour to the bombing of Hiroshima (with a short postscript set in 1950). Most episodes contain a “mini story” of internment and the Japanese American experience during World War II. Episode 3, for example, establishes the harsh living-conditions faced by those in the camp; episode 4 focuses on the experiences of Chester Nakayama fighting as a Nisei soldier; and episode 5 centers on a loyalty questionnaire that internees had to complete in 1943. The inclusion of a large number of characters—the Nakayama, Yoshida, and Furuya families, Luz Ojeda and Nobuhiro Yamato, to name just a few—allows the show to shift bank and forth between bounded and unbounded terrors in a “flexi-narrative” structure (Nelson 1997, 24). The horrors and realities of internment are built up over the course of nine of the ten episodes, culminating in the destruction of Hiroshima. The series concludes with the Japanese American community from Terminal Island more uncertain than ever about their place in America and their identities as Americans.

Indeed, while supernatural horrors are defeated, the audience is left to contemplate the unbounded horrors of the historical period that cannot be tidily resolved. In The Terror it is the hostile Arctic environment and a host of human errors and evils that ultimately leads to the annihilation of the crew. Meanwhile, racism and bigotry pose the greatest and most enduring threat to the characters in Them, Lovecraft Country, and Infamy. Although the malevolent forces in Them and Infamy are exorcized at the end of both series, the characters are left to contend with human evils. The Emory family, having overcome the dark force that haunted each of them, steps out of their house to face an angry white mob as the show abruptly ends. They may have beaten the devil, but there is yet more evil on their doorstep. In contrast to Them, Infamy’s ending provides significant resolution and is more upbeat, although it continues to acknowledge the difficulties faced by Japanese Americans and the centrality of internment to their collective experience. Five years after the war many of the characters have made new lives for themselves, though for some the nightmare clearly lingers. The supernatural horror was conquered and put to rest, but the horror of the camps is something that is still being reckoned with. Chester Nakayama, who has grappled with his personal and family identity over the course of the series, recognizes the importance of remembering and explains to his young son: “we have to make sure we keep remembering. OK? Or else we forget who we are.” In some cases, the bounded supernatural terrors become allies of the protagonists in the course of the narrative, as the Tuunbaq does during Captain Crozier’s showdown with the mutinous Cornelius Hickey. Similarly, in episode 3 of Lovecraft Country when Leti’s newly purchased house is found to be haunted by an array of grotesque ghosts, she comes to believe that the previous owner of the house, an astrophysicist named Hiram Epstein, conducted experiments on African American victims there. At the climax, as Leti, Tic, and a medium attempt to excise the house of all its demons, three white men armed with baseball bats enter to teach their new Black neighbors a lesson. The ghosts not only take care of these intruders by leading them to grisly deaths but join forces with Leti in the basement to expel Hiram from the house.

Experimental history series can explore any period and subject of history, although an affinity between the horror genre and racial histories is evident given that three out of the four case-studies revolve around race. Of course, if one looks at the wider entertainment landscape, the connection between horror and race is familiar. Since the release of Jordan Peele’s Get Out (2017) there has been a rise in “race horrors,” including Us (Peele, 2019), Antebellum (Bush & Renz, 2020), His House (Weekes, 2020), and Candyman (DaCosta, 2021). These films, as well as television shows like Lovecraft Country and Them, are largely created by Black talent which has resulted in a radical shift in how Blackness is portrayed in the horror genre. They are, to borrow from Means Coleman (2011), “Black horror” texts and not just horror films and TV shows with Black characters in them. As well as incorporating traditional features of the horror genre, these texts “have an added narrative focus that calls attention to racial identity” (p. 7). Rather than Black bodies being used as fodder for monsters or providing comic relief, Black characters are central, and it is Black cultural fears and anxieties that are reflected. The extent to which these texts offer thoughtful critiques of structural racism, whiteness and the Black experience varies greatly. While Peele’s Get Out “casts a critical eye at oppressive power structures from the perspective of colonized black people” (Pinedo 2020, 97) other race horror films and TV shows foreground Black suffering in a way that is superficial and exploitative (Okundaye 2021). Horror scholars have not only documented the genre’s ability to harness contemporary cultural fears and societal anxieties but have identified horror as a space where historical traumas can be exposed and explored (Blake 2008; Lowenstein 2005). Lowenstein (2005) suggests that horror movies can act as a kind of national allegory, reflecting and working through the traumatic experiences of a society. Horror cinema is uniquely suited to this task because it can engage with collective fears and anxieties in a visceral and affective way, using the language of horror to explore and articulate traumas. Placed in this context, it’s unsurprising that three of the horror series revolve around America’s traumatic racial past.

The Potential and Future of Experimental History Series

Just as written histories vary in terms of quality, the same is true for histories on screen. Some TV series can be categorized as effective experimental histories because they craft nuanced historical narratives that continuously encourage historical thinking in inventive ways, while others are less successful. Lovecraft Country’s wide-ranging examination of white supremacy and Black resistance is much more complex than Them’s often one-dimensional representation of 1950s America. The former uses the conventions of the horror genre to construct a thought-provoking narrative about American racism but in Them it occasionally feels as though the opposite is true—that the historical period is being exploited to serve the horror genre. As Woolfork (2023) astutely points out, while Lovecraft Country “underscores the racist horrors of 1950s America, Black people are also shown to thrive” (p. 196). Black joy in the form of house and block parties, successful black businesses, and nurturing homes and community spaces are just as central to the narrative as Black suffering. Conversely, Them’s representation of Black mid-century life is far less balanced and sometimes becomes “black trauma porn.” Okundaye (2021) excoriates the series as an “exercise in gratuitous racial violence, both in the infliction of racial terror against the Emory family, and on the Black audience who are left without respite from visceral and degrading scenes” (para 5). While it can be classified as an effective horror series based upon the affective responses it generates, it is, undoubtedly, the weakest experimental history examined in this study. Beyond the depth and quality of the history being presented there are other considerations when it comes to evaluating the strength and potential of experimental history series. To engage with the history, viewers must enjoy the show, making the entertainment factor crucial. Although both seasons of The Terror presented valid and thoughtful historical interpretations to viewers, Infamy received less favorable audience reviews and a third season failed to materialize. ⁶

These four shows can be classified as experimental histories, but that does not mean that all horror shows set in the past can be expected to encourage historical thinking. Indeed, not all are designed or intended to. Chapelwaite (Epix, 2021–) is a horror series set in the 1850s in the invented town of Preacher’s Corners in Maine. It is not the fictional location that prevents it from being an experimental history, rather, it’s the fact that it is difficult to get a sense of the historical period beyond a few banal generalities. Aspiring writer Rebecca Morgan faces hurdles in her profession because of her sex, and the Boone children are ostracized by the townsfolk because of their mixed-race heritage, but the examination of these issues is haphazard and broadly drawn at best. While accurate for the period depicted, the history in this show helps to generate moments of drama and conflict but could be excised from the narrative without significantly altering the show or diminishing its horrors. The horror is independent of the history, rather than tied to it, which is not the case with Lovecraft Country, Them, The Terror, and Infamy. Chapelwaite is simply a horror set in the past; it offers no sustained historical argument.

Experimental history series can appear in other genres too, beyond science-fiction and horror. Amazon Prime’s The Underground Railroad (2021) does not feature preternatural creatures but is instead a magical realist limited series that examines racism in the antebellum period. How The Underground Railroad blends fact and fiction to produce an experimental history is often more subtle than the case-studies examined here. The inventions are, on the whole, less overt, and it may be challenging for some viewers to separate fact from fiction. The addition of explicit supernatural horror in Lovecraft Country, Them, The Terror, and Infamy has the advantage of making it easier for a general audience to recognize the fiction, and thus stimulate historical thinking. It is also worth noting that The Underground Railroad, along with two of the case-study series, are based on novels. Writers and artists have long employed fiction to render the past in unfamiliar ways. Television is not unique in this sense, but it is a medium in which experimental histories are thriving and to which they are particularly suited.

The reason experimental histories are flourishing, especially experimental racial histories, may be due to the inclusion of diverse voices behind the scenes. Given the rise in numbers of scripted TV shows during the Peak TV era and the imperative to deliver targeted, niche content, the number of non-white and non-male TV show creators has increased over the past ten years (Ramón et al. 2022). The challenging experimental histories discussed here were created by diverse creative teams, but this change and the proliferation of experimental dramas may be short-lived. If the number of series cancelations and the cost-cutting measures of streaming providers in 2023 is anything to go by, the era of Peak TV is coming to a close. ⁷ While it is impossible to guess where exactly the TV industry is heading, especially given the recent Writers Guild of America and SAG-AFTRA strikes, it seems likely that the number of new shows will contract to more sustainable levels and that niche TV series may need to find a wider audience if they want to survive beyond one season. An unfortunate consequence may be a reduction in the number of experimental histories that are greenlit and produced, especially those that offer diverse interpretations. The recent crop of historical horrors, including Lovecraft Country and the anthology series Them and The Terror, demonstrate the potential of the form. These shows effectively utilize genre tropes to challenge audience expectations and present history in innovative ways that stimulate historical thinking. Experimental history series complement the other forms of TV history by offering audiences an alternative way to engage with the past. One can only hope that they continue to find a place on television, even if it is in reduced numbers.