The Unearthly Influence of David Lynch on the Horror Genre
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.
Lynch’s gift lies in exposing the rot beneath idyllic exteriors. “Blue Velvet” (1986) is a masterclass in horror-adjacent storytelling, where the idyllic suburban town of Lumberton hides a dark underworld of violence and depravity. The film’s juxtaposition of bright lawns and psychosexual dread has since become a template for countless horror filmmakers seeking to unsettle audiences by subverting the mundane.
His magnum opus, Twin Peaks (1990-1991, 2017), merges soap opera melodrama with surreal horror, giving us one of television’s most haunting figures: BOB, one of my earliest boogeymen. The series’ exploration of trauma, possession, and the fragility of reality feels as fresh today as it did in the early ’90s. I don’t like to use the expression “it wouldn’t get made today”, but I don’t see how anything like it would exist in today’s streaming world. Lynch’s ability to turn small-town quirks into sites of existential dread paved the way for shows like The X-Files, Stranger Things, and Castle Rock.
Lynch’s surrealist leanings push horror beyond jump scares and gore into the realm of the uncanny. His debut feature, Eraserhead (1977), is arguably a horror film, with its industrial wastelands, grotesque imagery, and the visceral terror of parenthood. The film’s dream logic has inspired directors like Darren Aronofsky (Mother!) and Ari Aster (Hereditary, Beau Is Afraid) to lean into the surreal to evoke unease.
The Red Room sequences in Twin Peaks are another shining example of how Lynch weaponizes surrealism. With its backward-speaking Man from Another Place, flickering lights, and oppressive sound design, the Red Room feels like a descent into a Jungian nightmare. This approach to horror—eschewing linear storytelling in favor of mood and atmosphere—has influenced everything from The Babadook to It Follows.
Lynch’s use of sound is an integral part of his horror legacy. Collaborating with sound designer Alan Splet and later with Angelo Badalamenti, Lynch crafts auditory landscapes that feel invasive and otherworldly. The screeching industrial sounds of Eraserhead and the ominous droning in Mulholland Drive create a sense of unease that lingers long after the credits roll. Modern horror films like A Quiet Place and The Witch owe much to Lynch’s pioneering work in sound design, where silence and noise become characters in their own right.
David Lynch’s influence extends beyond film and television, leaving an indelible mark on the world of horror video games. His surreal storytelling, emphasis on atmosphere, and psychological horror have inspired iconic titles that push the boundaries of interactive storytelling.
The Silent Hill series, particularly the second installment, owes much to Lynch’s unsettling style. The fog-drenched town, oppressive sound design, and deeply personal horror echo Lynch’s exploration of trauma and the subconscious. The influence of Twin Peaks is particularly evident in the characters and environments, with the small-town setting of Silent Hill serving as a twisted reflection of Lynch’s eerie locales.
Games like Deadly Premonition wear their Lynchian inspiration on their sleeve, embracing the quirky, offbeat tone and blending it with moments of profound unease. Even modern titles like Alan Wake and Control by Remedy Entertainment showcase Lynch’s impact, with their dreamlike narratives, enigmatic characters, and a pervasive sense of dread.
Lynch’s emphasis on sound and mood has also shaped the way horror games utilize audio to evoke fear. The haunting soundscapes of games like Amnesia: The Dark Descent and Resident Evil 7 owe a debt to Lynch’s pioneering work in auditory unease, proving that sound can be just as terrifying as visuals.
David Lynch’s influence extends far and wide, touching filmmakers who continue to redefine horror. Jordan Peele’s Us echoes Lynch in its doppelgänger horror and eerie Americana, while Robert Eggers and Ari Aster channel Lynch’s penchant for dream logic and psychological terror. Even David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows feels like a spiritual successor to Lynch’s work, with its timeless, disorienting setting and pervasive sense of dread.
Moreover, Lynch’s commitment to exploring trauma resonates deeply with contemporary horror’s emphasis on emotional depth. The Haunting of Hill House and Midsommar owe their raw, human-centered terror to Lynch’s blueprint—horror not as spectacle, but as a deeply personal and often surreal confrontation with the self.
David Lynch’s impact on horror is both subtle and seismic. He didn’t just push boundaries; he dissolved them, proving that the most effective horror doesn’t always lie in what’s seen, but in what’s felt. By marrying the uncanny with the emotional, Lynch has ensured his work remains a touchstone for those who seek to unsettle, disturb, and provoke.
In a world increasingly obsessed with the spectacle, Lynch reminds us that the greatest horrors often lie in the quietest, most unassuming and most intimate places. And that, perhaps, is the scariest thought of all.
