In the wake of David Lynch’s passing, I’ve been thinking a lot about his legacy. I’m so bewildered about a man whose vision was so unique, so uncompromising, so alienating. He made the art he wanted to make, and the people who liked it, stayed. I admire that. In a world full of inauthentic content clones, it feels bizarre that such a man existed. David Lynch’s name conjures images of unsettling dreams, warped Americana, and realities where the familiar turns grotesque. While Lynch’s work often defies traditional genre categorization, often only being described as “Lynchian” his influence on horror is undeniable, shaping its landscape through surreal narratives, uncanny imagery, and the deeply psychological terror that lurks beneath the surface of his films and TV shows. When I was a kid, I would watch episodes of Twin Peaks from between the bannister while my parents thought I was asleep. It was when Bob showed up on screen that I was finally moved to stop. I saw him in my nightmares, grinning, crawling, his greasy hair hanging over his face, clawing at my sheets. It took me 20 years until I watched Twin Peaks again. To say that Lynch had an influence in horror is an understatement. His art was a reminder of the creative power of the subconscious mind, and the horrors it can produce.