DISCLAIMER: It is impossible to discuss Eldritch horror without discussing H.P. Lovecraft. However, the author’s condemnable racial prejudice and xenophobia is present in his literary works. These have, understandably, caused discomfort amongst readers, but I nevertheless encourage engagement with his work, to understand the foundation of a genre whose themes permeate great work of recent times.
In silence, I ascend the marble steps to enter Bloodborne’s dimly lit research hall. I step around the cracked tiles which circumscribe a shallow pool and look above in wonder at a labyrinth of staircases and halls. A character flails in the pool, a man mangled. He is draped in a bloody hospital gown, with a belt tied haphazardly around his neck serving to hoist up a bedsheet containing a swollen mass of blood, tissue, and brain. “Has someone, anyone, seen my eyes? I’m afraid I’ve dropped them in a puddle. Everything is pale now.”
Bloodborne, a video game by FromSoftware, is heavily influenced by the genre of Eldritch Horror popularised by the work of H.P. Lovecraft. H.P. Lovecraft (20/08/1890 – 15/3/1937) was an American author best known for his work of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. His thesis, as outlined in his essay “Supernatural Horror in Literature” is that “[t]he oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest fear is fear of the unknown.” Lovecraft’s stories follow protagonists, who, with their innate human desire to push the frontier and unveil mystery, encounter beings incomprehensible to mere mortal minds. The burden of such ‘higher truths’, often in the form of Eldritch beings, thrusts the protagonists into paralysing fear and madness. At The Mountains of Madness charts a doomed expedition to the Antarctic, in which the group stumble upon relics of an ancient civilisation amongst the frosty outskirts. Part of the group is slaughtered; the rest can only speculate as to the causative entity. In The Call of Cthulhu, the protagonist attempts to uncover the mystery behind the Cthulhu cult, piecing together evidence from explorers, police, and seamen who have come close to the truth. Each page is like an obituary, as we learn of their untimely demise just before the protagonist could meet them directly. As he learns more about Cthulhu, and the disturbing practices of the cult that worships it, he stops his search, and in resignation, admits “death would be a boon if only it could blot out the memories”. We are well aware, that given how much he has learned, the boon of death will soon befall him.
The fear of the unknown continues to fascinate and enthral throughout fiction, and while the tension between man and the unknown is ever-present, the dynamics vary between the genres of fantasy and science-fiction. Often in fantasy, the unforeseen consequences of human activity are shown through the violation of nature; meanwhile, the antiquated technologies innate to the genre ensure that no one character is powerful enough to overcome insurmountable odds. Meanwhile, the unknown horror in science-fiction results from humans overreaching their bounds. Unchecked technological advancement and research with their consequential societal hubris prompts a stark reckoning when faced with the unknown horror of emergent properties in the technology. New code, protocols, or unforeseen evolutions sequester control away from its mortal creators, thus leaving a profound sense of alienation and a reminder of the fragility of human existence. Overall, science-fiction imagines the fallout of direct human action (man-made horrors) that the fantasy genre portends.
In fantasy, a sense of dread is accomplished through exploring the consequences either of man’s violation of the world’s natural laws, or through their meeting with Eldritch beings. While magic is often a feature, the lacking technology of a fantasy world renders its inhabitants powerless against Eldritch threats. A world gripped by hopelessness, denial of the unknown, and transformation of the natural landscape is exemplified by the Eldritch horror lurking under the surface of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire – ‘The Others’ (aka the ‘White Walkers’).
Disappointed we might have been by the denouement of Game of Thrones’ final season; but we can all attest to the shock and awe inspired by the show’s many well-choreographed battles and, above all, the political intrigue of Westeros. As different players strive for the Iron Throne, we see domains rise and fall, protagonists annihilated, and betrayal rampant. Much like the fictional players in Westeros, we too forget the threat of the White Walkers. This series can be viewed as a compelling argument for the need of collective action in the face of environmental disaster. As summarised by political scientist Charli Carpenter: “The pursuit of short-term objectives distracts players from the truly pressing issues of human survival and stability”.
Climate catastrophe takes the form of ‘The Others’, Eldritch beings of frost and magic whose origins are unknown. “Winter is coming” is a perennial threat both literal and metaphorical. The Others descend from the far north, inexorably expanding their domain across Westeros, laying waste to all in their wake. Those closest to the threat, the ‘Night’s Watch’, often send out pleas for help from the Westerosi nobles, but they are met with indifference from those willing to believe but too busy politicking, and scorn from those who maintain that the threat is merely a myth. Martin emphasises their importance by introducing his audience to the world of A Song of Ice and Fire through the re-emergence of ‘The Others’. In the prologue, we follow rangers of the Night’s Watch, who much like Lovecraft’s protagonists, venture beyond the normal confines of their world. Dread builds as they delve deeper into the harsh cold of the far north, eventually finding the lifeless bodies of their targets. The two more experienced men frequently advise caution, urge restraint, and sense impending doom. The leader of troupe, a steadfast young buck eager to make a name for himself, ignores the warnings of his more wizened comrades. Upon re-examination of the scene, the bodies have disappeared. The Others, “strange, beautiful… a different sort of life”, emerge for the first time in thousands of years, and ambush the troupe.
As we progress through the series, we experience madness on two levels: that of the characters encountering the threat, and our own in response to the absent Westerosi response. Whenever the expansive story returns to the ‘Night’s Watch’, we read with trepidation, anxious as to what new aspect of ‘The Others’ we discover (usually resulting from the involuntary sacrifice of some men). The frenzied politics of the ‘Night’s Watch’ tends towards insanity as they suffer from dwindling resources, lack of external support, and a resistance from its leaders to break millennia-old protocol and incorporate fringe populations who are the first victims of this devastating environmental change — all while the slow descent of this planetary force continues.
A 2023 report from the Center for Countering Digital Hate shows that a “new form of climate denial” has garnered over 325 million views across social media. It aims to undermine current green solutions and promote ‘inactivism’ in the face of climate change. The barest logic of climate change should be enough to prompt action, yet most do nothing. Loss aversion, our fear of losing short-term desires overpowering the promise of longer-term gains, and optimism bias, in which we overestimate the chance that we’ll experience positive events while underestimating the converse, are potent drivers of inaction. As such, the unconscious biases we hold explain our characteristic Westerosi acquiescence. In response to a threat we don’t even fully understand, we would much rather continue on with our day than promote the necessary drastic changes in our life.
Martin’s Westeros is a stark reflection of our current predicament. His work is a plea to his audience: confront the issue of climate change and prioritise unity over division in the face of challenges that transcend individual interest. Time will tell whether we, like the Westerosi nobles, heed this warning or watch in regret as the Eldritch horror of our own creation continues unchecked.
The fact that the Eldritch Horror in science-fiction is the product of human endeavour adds an additional level of unease. Lovecraft published during a time of rapid scientific advancement, fuelled by growing industrialisation and the drive for innovation that world war necessitates. It would take only 66 years between the first flight of the Wright brothers and man walking on the moon. In this context, Lovecraft’s works can be interpreted as cautionary tales, warning the post-Victorian scientists against pushing the frontier of science simply because they could, without asking whether they should.
In Jurassic Park, we see the awestruck palaeontologist Dr. Grant and palaeobotanist Dr. Sattler as they first set eyes on a herd of reanimated brachiosaurs. This amazement soon turns to silence as the park malfunctions and the creators become prey to something 65 million years in the making. The science of genetic manipulation is not treated as a fantastic new practice, but a dangerous and ethically misguided one. Dr. Malcolm’s background in chaos theory results in constant musings on the dangers of tampering with nature and the unconsidered consequences of progress for progress’ sake. Ultimately, despite being a deservedly laudable feat, the re-emergence of dinosaurs through genetic manipulation receives unanimous disapproval (even before the dinosaurs are released from their cages).
What techies apparently consider a wry joke, Shoggoth, another of Lovecraft’s Eldritch beings, has become the mascot for generative A.I. models such as Chat-GPT. Much like Shoggoth or Cthulhu, beings which exist on a different plane of reality to ourselves, the black box of generative A.I. models also works in a way unknown to humans. HAL 9000, the quintessential example of the horrors of sentient machines, takes centre-stage in 2001: A Space Odyssey. By lipreading the protagonists, HAL shows the audience the full extent of their capabilities. In a scene, the beady red circle, a portal of Boolean hell, wrests control away from its masters and plots their demise but as the protagonists destroy HAL, ignoring desperate calls for mercy, we realise that HAL was merely acting in self-defence. Perhaps the horror is not the creation itself, but our own flaws that we impart on our creations. For example, many generative A.I. models have been shown to exhibit biases which propagate discrimination. In this way, science-fiction implores us to reflect on our own harmful practices, and warns us by portraying the consequences of our ignorance and hubris.
In comparison to fantasy, where initial contact with the unknown is the focus of the horror, science-fiction places more emphasis on the limitations of our knowledge. The fact that sci-fi civilisations are often unprepared in the face of the immense threat, despite their technological advancement (and in some cases because of it), develops a growing feeling of existential dread and powerlessness — feelings on which the new wave of climate denial is eager to capitalise.
It is through this lens that I return to Bloodborne’s dimly lit research hall, another cautionary tale against experiment for experiment’s sake. I traverse the labyrinth and confront the aftermath of the trust innocent patients placed in what they thought were healing hands. Under the guise of scientific advancement, they were subjected to deadly experimentation. In each of Lovecraft’s stories, the audience almost pleads with the characters to turn away and be done with the investigation; yet we, like the protagonists, continue, desperate to learn the truth. Similarly, I press on, battling through hordes of patients, parrying their makeshift weapons (some use the knives which carved them, others the IV drip that poisoned them). Video games have the benefit of presenting multiple endings according to the extent of their completion. Curiously, by going further than those before you, you attain the higher knowledge and transcend your current plane of existence, becoming one of the higher beings. Perhaps then, there is a method to this madness.
If science-fiction deals with the response to man-made horrors, it stands to reason that there is the possibility to construct man-made solutions just as powerful. As we earnestly push the frontier simply because we can, we must apply the same radical thought in encountering the Eldritch horror of our own creation: climate disaster. Individuals remain the key players in this sphere, our own ‘Night’s Watch’. Amongst them is glaciologist John Moore, who is modelling and testing the practicalities of constructing gigantic barriers in front of glaciers to reduce their melting and buy time for transitioning to net-zero. The Thwaites ‘doomsday’ glacier is one of the fastest deteriorating glaciers in the world. Subject to a potent positive feedback loop which promotes increasingly rapid melting, total collapse could spell a rise of 0.5m in global sea levels and serve as a catalyst for the degradation of the Antarctic ice sheet. While this is a long-term issue, some suggest that significant deterioration could occur this century, and as such, time is paramount. Moore’s proposed geoengineering project is currently of fantasy, or maybe science-fiction, relegated to committee discussions and complex modelling.
In The Call of Cthulhu, Lovecraft describes Cthulhu as a walking mountain. To stand next to a glacier, according to glaciologist Doug MacAyeal is “like standing next to a monster. It’s so big, so terrifying. And to think a human could intervene in that, and change it? It’s just something that … seems inconceivable.” Madness, even. Nevertheless, seeing as no single entity organises geoengineering research – and seeing as academics are often left to push their ideas alone — collective action on this front is a clear step forward. Momentum has been achieved elsewhere. In 2018, a sixteen-year old schoolgirl refused to go to school in protest against climate change inertia; months later, global truancy was encouraged. Our visceral reaction to words on a page or pixels on a screen is encouraging. Such art reflects the consequences of our actions. But it is a source of hope. In the face of contemporary horrors, we must remember to tread cautiously on the precipice of the unknown. And yet, with concerted effort, and by combining the magic of collective action with the technologies at our disposal, it is nevertheless a threat that we can overcome.
This work was first published in the Cambridge Review of Books Spring 2024 Issue.
Yusuf Adia 