What is the fastest way to make a horror film stop being scary?
Matt Yocum’s answer was immediate: mute it.
At first, the response feels almost too simple. Horror cinema is often discussed in terms of monsters, visual effects, darkness, violence, or shock. Yet remove the soundtrack and something fundamental changes. The creature remains on screen. The corridor remains dark. The threat still exists. What disappears is much of the tension. Anticipation begins to weaken. The feeling that something terrible might be about to happen gradually fades away. For Yocum, whose career has included sound design work across film and television, this observation reveals something important about the role of sound in horror. Sound design is not simply about creating interesting sounds. It is about shaping emotion. Throughout his guest lecture at Edinburgh Napier University, whether discussing creature design, immersive audio, audience psychology, or jump scares, a remarkably consistent idea emerged. Horror is not primarily about making audiences hear frightening things. It is about making them feel uncertain about what might happen next.
That distinction helps explain why some of the most effective moments in horror involve remarkably little happening at all. A character walks slowly down a hallway. A door stands slightly ajar. An empty room appears entirely ordinary. Nothing overtly threatening is visible, yet audiences become increasingly uncomfortable. According to Yocum, much of horror operates through tension and release. Viewers are encouraged to anticipate an event before that event actually arrives, and sound plays a central role in constructing that anticipation. Environmental detail begins to disappear. The soundtrack becomes quieter. Attention narrows. Audiences recognise the pattern immediately. Years of watching horror films have taught them that something is coming. A character approaches a door, the atmosphere tightens, and the audience braces itself for the inevitable scare. The door opens and nothing is there. Relief briefly returns, only for the real scare to arrive moments later when attention has already begun to relax. Horror repeatedly exploits this relationship between expectation and uncertainty. Audiences respond not only to what they hear, but also to what they believe they are about to hear.
Silence therefore occupies a surprisingly important position within horror sound design. Although the genre is often associated with loud impacts and sudden shocks, Yocum argued that removing sound can be just as effective as adding it. As environmental information falls away, attention becomes focused on the sounds that remain. Breathing becomes more noticeable. Footsteps acquire greater significance. The creak of a floorboard suddenly feels loaded with meaning. None of these sounds are inherently frightening. Their significance emerges through context. A footstep heard in a crowded shopping centre communicates something very different from a footstep heard in an empty house late at night. Horror succeeds by manipulating those relationships, encouraging audiences to reinterpret ordinary sounds as signs of vulnerability, danger, or uncertainty. Rather than overwhelming viewers with information, effective sound design often achieves more through careful restraint. The audience begins searching for clues, assigning importance to small details, and constructing explanations from incomplete information. In many respects, horror is less concerned with frightening sounds than with the psychology of listening itself.
Questions of interpretation also emerged throughout Yocum’s discussion of creature design. Audiences often imagine creature sound as a process of inventing something entirely new, though the reality is frequently more complicated. Effective creature design begins not with software, plug-ins, or signal processing, but with observation. How large is the creature? How does it move? Does it walk, crawl, slither, or fly? Does it possess lungs? How much does it weigh? What sort of anatomy produces its sounds? Such questions help ground fictional beings within believable worlds. Sound gives visual effects a sense of physical presence. A creature that appears enormous on screen can feel surprisingly weightless without appropriate sonic support. Movement, impacts, breathing, and vocalisation all contribute to the illusion that something genuinely occupies space. The task is not simply to create an unusual sound. It is to persuade audiences that a fictional entity belongs within the world they are experiencing.
One of the most memorable moments in the lecture emerged when a student described creating a creature vocalisation from the sound of a restaurant toilet flush. Rather than dismissing the idea, Yocum praised the approach. Organic source material, he argued, often provides richer creative possibilities than excessive processing. A toilet flush already contains qualities that resemble breathing, resonance, and vocalisation. More importantly, it originates in the physical world. Throughout the lecture, Yocum repeatedly returned to the value of starting with interesting source material rather than attempting to manufacture complexity through endless layers of effects. This preference led naturally into a broader discussion about creative confidence. Early in his career, he admitted that he often attempted to solve design problems through increasingly complex layering and processing. Over time, he recognised a common trap. Designers frequently add more and more material when they become uncertain about their choices. One piece of advice from veteran sound designer Erik Aadahl remained particularly influential: the less confident you are, the more likely you are to throw the kitchen sink at a design. The observation is humorous, though it points towards a deeper truth about creative practice. Effective sound design is rarely an exercise in accumulation. It is an exercise in decision-making. Success depends less upon how many sounds can be added and more upon understanding which sounds genuinely belong.
A story later in the lecture illustrated this principle perfectly. Working on a film involving a supernatural creature, Yocum spent weeks developing vocalisations based upon detailed descriptions provided by the filmmakers. Numerous versions were presented. None satisfied the directors. More versions followed. Still nothing. Eventually, after countless iterations and experiments, the sound that made it into the final film turned out to be a heavily processed recording of his French bulldog. The story generated laughter, though it also revealed something important about professional practice. Sound design is rarely a straightforward process of technical problem-solving. It often depends upon experimentation, intuition, collaboration, and a willingness to recognise successful ideas when they emerge from unexpected places. Behind the technology, the software, and the increasingly sophisticated production tools lies a creative discipline that remains deeply dependent upon listening, judgement, and imagination.
Questions of attention remained central throughout the lecture, particularly when Yocum turned towards immersive audio formats such as Dolby Atmos. Discussions of Atmos often focus upon technology. Additional speakers create opportunities for sounds to move around an audience, above them, and through three-dimensional space. Yet one of the more interesting aspects of Yocum’s discussion was the extent to which he resisted treating the technology itself as the primary attraction. Additional channels do not automatically create better storytelling. A sound placed behind the audience is not effective simply because it appears behind them. It becomes effective when its position contributes to the emotional experience of the scene. This principle feels especially relevant to horror. Audiences are often more frightened by sounds they cannot see than by threats directly in front of them. A creak somewhere behind a listener immediately encourages questions. What caused it? How far away is it? Is it moving closer? A sound overhead may suggest a presence occupying unseen space. Rain surrounding a house can make isolation feel more tangible. In each case, the sound itself matters less than the uncertainty it creates. Atmos therefore becomes a storytelling tool rather than a technological showcase. The objective is not to demonstrate that sounds can move around a room. The objective is to shape how audiences imagine the world beyond the frame.
Many of Yocum’s examples returned to this relationship between hearing and imagination. Horror repeatedly exploits the simple observation that listeners can hear far more than they can see. Sound extends perception beyond the limits of the image. A camera may reveal only a small portion of a location, though audio can suggest activity elsewhere. Something may be moving in another room. A distant voice may imply an unseen presence. A sound above a ceiling can transform an ordinary environment into a potentially threatening one. Once audiences begin constructing explanations for sounds that lack visible sources, imagination becomes an active participant in the storytelling process. Classic horror cinema frequently depends upon this principle. Yocum pointed to Alien as a particularly influential example. Although the creature has become one of the most recognisable monsters in film history, much of its effectiveness emerges from how rarely audiences see it clearly. Sound plays a crucial role in sustaining that uncertainty. The audience hears evidence of the creature’s presence long before receiving a complete visual understanding of what it is. Strange noises, movement within confined spaces, and subtle indications of activity allow imagination to fill gaps that images deliberately leave unresolved. The result is often more effective than direct revelation. Once a threat becomes fully visible, it also becomes more understandable. Horror frequently derives its strength from resisting that certainty.
A similar logic appeared in Yocum’s discussion of possessed objects and haunted spaces. One example involved whispers gradually drawing a child towards a crack in a wall. Physically, very little is happening. The wall remains a wall. The room remains a room. Yet sound transforms the situation. The whispers encourage audiences to assign significance to something that would otherwise appear entirely ordinary. An inanimate object begins to feel charged with possibility. Attention becomes focused upon a location that images alone could never make equally compelling. Sound therefore contributes not only to atmosphere but also to narrative meaning. It guides audiences towards particular interpretations of what they are seeing.
What emerged repeatedly throughout these examples was the importance of expectation. Horror does not simply frighten audiences through sudden surprises. It first teaches them how to anticipate those surprises. Once viewers recognise familiar patterns, filmmakers can begin manipulating them. Yocum highlighted Barbarian as a particularly interesting contemporary example. The film repeatedly establishes situations that appear to be moving towards conventional horror outcomes before abruptly changing direction. Audiences believe they understand what will happen next. The film then exploits that confidence. Sound design plays a central role in this process. Expectations must first be established before they can be disrupted. A soundtrack may encourage viewers to anticipate danger in one place while the real threat emerges somewhere else entirely.
Taken together, these examples reveal a consistent philosophy running throughout Yocum’s lecture. Sound design is not simply concerned with what audiences hear. It is concerned with where they direct their attention, what they expect to happen next, and how they interpret incomplete information. Atmos, creature design, silence, environmental detail, and possessed objects may appear to involve very different techniques, though they frequently pursue the same objective. They encourage audiences to imagine worlds extending beyond what is immediately visible. Horror thrives within that gap between perception and certainty. The less certain audiences become about what lies beyond the frame, the more actively they participate in constructing the experience themselves.
Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is a conception of sound design that extends far beyond the creation of individual sounds. Discussions of horror often focus upon monsters, jump scares, disturbing imagery, or technical effects, yet Yocum repeatedly returned to something more fundamental. Sound design is ultimately concerned with emotion. Every creative decision, from the selection of source material to the placement of a sound within an immersive environment, contributes to how audiences experience a story. This perspective helps explain why so many of the lecture’s examples appeared to revolve around expectation rather than spectacle. Silence becomes valuable not simply because it removes sound, but because it changes how listeners interpret what remains. Creature design succeeds not through complexity alone, but through an understanding of physiology, movement, and character. Atmos becomes meaningful when it directs attention towards spaces that audiences cannot see. Even the most effective jump scares depend less upon the scare itself than upon the tension that precedes it. Across each of these examples, sound functions as a way of shaping perception and guiding interpretation.
Many of the stories shared throughout the lecture pointed towards the same conclusion. A restaurant toilet flush can become the foundation for a creature vocalisation. Weeks of carefully crafted designs may ultimately give way to a recording of a French bulldog. A whisper can transform an ordinary wall into something unsettling. None of these outcomes emerge from technology alone. They emerge from a creative process built upon listening, experimentation, and a willingness to follow ideas wherever they lead. The tools may continue to evolve, though the underlying challenge remains remarkably consistent: understanding how audiences will respond to what they hear. Perhaps this is why horror provides such a revealing lens through which to understand sound design more broadly. The genre exposes processes that are often present in other forms of storytelling but are easier to overlook. Audiences are constantly interpreting sounds, assigning meanings to them, and using them to make sense of the worlds unfolding around them. Horror simply makes those processes more visible. A creak in a floorboard, a distant movement, or a barely audible breath can suddenly become the focus of intense attention. The sounds themselves may be entirely ordinary. What changes is the emotional framework through which they are experienced.
Returning to Yocum’s opening observation, the fastest way to make a horror film less frightening may indeed be to mute it. Doing so removes far more than sound effects or atmospheric detail. It removes anticipation. It removes uncertainty. It removes many of the subtle cues that encourage audiences to imagine what might happen next. Horror depends upon those moments of expectation, and sound plays a central role in creating them.
A hallway. A footstep. A whisper from another room. A door slowly opening.
None of these things are especially frightening on their own.
Yet in the hands of a skilled sound designer, they can make an entire audience hold its breath.
