Most trace the origins of “cozy fiction” to the emergence of “cozy mysteries.” Emily Martin writes, “Cozy mysteries are still a fairly recent development in the mystery genre. The term ‘cozy mystery’ was coined in the late 20th century at a time when contemporary writers were trying to recreate the feel of the mystery novels from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction.” Tirzah Price adds, “The cozy mystery genre has its roots in early 20th century British mysteries (think Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers)… and as a response to the hardboiled crime fiction that became popular in the U.S. in the mid-20th century.” So “cozy fiction” was both an attempt recreate the classic “whodunits” of the Golden Age while also distancing itself from the grittier, hardboiled noir of the postwar era.

The contemporary “cozy mystery” genre is incredibly popular. A search for the term on Amazon lands over 60,000 results. In fact, the “cozy” genre has spawned numerous subgenres. For example, now you can find subgenres of “cozy romance,” “cozy fantasy,” “cozy westerns,” and even “cozy science fiction.” 

So what is “cozy fiction”? Author Karen Cioffi notes several features of “cozies,” as they are oft-called. The books exude “comfort, warmth, and light-heartedness.” They transport readers “to peaceful settings” and offer storylines “that emphasize community, simpler times, and emotional resolution.” These stories offer “nostalgia and simplicity,” and provide “escapism” and “finding relief.”

She concludes:

In an unpredictable world, cozy literature’s structured and predictable narrative style is soothing. Readers know what to expect: a slow, leisurely build-up, a connectable-to protagonist, and a satisfying resolution.

There’s a kind of security in knowing that everything will work out in the end; it’s quite the contrast to the often unresolved, cliff-hanging nature of modern news or the unpredictability of life itself.

This predictability, where everything will fall into place, provides a sense of control and stability for readers.

Which brings us to the latest iteration of cozy fiction — “cozy horror.”

At first glance, the very nature of cozy storytelling appears antithetical to the horror genre. Horror is rarely characterized by “comfort, warmth, and light-heartedness.” Readers of the genre are not looking for “peaceful settings” nor “finding relief.” Not only are horror tales often “unpredictable,” there’s no guarantee that “everything will work out in the end.” Nevertheless, despite these dissimilarities, “Horror” is the latest iteration of the “cozy” genre. 

So what is “cozy horror”?

Well, this is where things get sticky.

A recent episode of the horror podcast, Books in the Freezer, describes cozy horror as having “spooky elements,” but also being “low stakes” and knowing you’re going to have “a happy ending.” Or as the Porter House Review puts it, cozy horror is fiction which follows the general conventions of the horror genre but “with a happy ending, or low stakes…or even if the stakes are big, it’s surrounded by humor, or a love interest, or things that kind of negate those big stakes.”

In her article on the subject, Kate Stallworth explains:

The perils of cozy horror are far enough from reality that readers are in no danger of experiencing them, and so we are free to enjoy the romp through a ghost-filled graveyard, a towering Gothic castle, a witch’s cottage with a crackling fireside hearth.

Likewise, in their article Frightfully Delightful: A Guide to Writing Cozy Horror, the folks at the Campfire Team summarize, 

Cozy horror strikes a balance between spine-tingling tales and lighthearted enjoyment, offering a reading experience that can best be described as ‘comfortably scary.’ In other words, it’s equal parts frightful and delightful.

Imagine stories where the supernatural or otherworldly is imbued with a sense of humor and familiarity—think socially anxious vampires and sentient jack-o-lanterns rather than bloodthirsty killers and gory deaths.

Settings are spooky but there is a certain inherent coziness to them—’homey’ haunted houses and cottages, candlelit school hallways, and misty forests that feel a bit scary, but also familiar. Characters still have to face their greatest fears, but they get to walk away (largely) unharmed. Bad things might happen, but good things happen, too.

In a way, cozy horror has an added sense of realism to it as well—it pokes fun at all the classic horror tropes, and it gives characters hope.

But while genre-blending is a common practice in the world of literature, melding cozy fiction with the horror genre has not been without pushback.

In her article at The Mary Sue, Julia Glassman categorizes this pushback. She notes that some objectors claim that “cozy horror is an oxymoron.” Others see it as “infantilizing.” Still others claim that “coziness is gentrifying horror, or that cozy horror robs horror of its essence.” She argues, “Terror is the only metric by which horror is judged, and the more terrified a viewer or reader can stand to be, the better a horror fan they are.”

In this sense, cozy horror can’t be scary enough to be real horror. By ensuring “lighthearted enjoyment” and a “happy ending,” any terror — which is a central metric of the genre — is thus negated. 

Stallworth elaborates on these objections, suggesting that “the way cozy horror has been defined” proliferates a fundamental “misunderstanding” of the genre. 

Western horror fiction as we know it today originated in the 1790s when a handful of authors began to blend elements of 15th century fairy tales and then-modern Gothic literature. One of those authors was Anne Radcliffe, who also coined the dynamic on which the genre’s foundations are built in her essay ‘On the Supernatural in Poetry,’ published posthumously in 1826. Terror, Radcliffe proposed, was the discomfort of anticipation, the tension of a held breath. Conversely, horror was the moment of release, where the reader is confronted head-on with a disturbing idea.

While stories that evoke “terror” and the head-on confrontation with “a disturbing idea” may contain many different literary and tonal distinctives, “tension and confrontation are the central forces of the story.” Because of this, “the tense balancing act of shock and suspense, is the defining element of successful horror literature.”

Which is why Stallworth maintains that cozy fiction and the horror genre are mostly incompatible:

A story that provides its audience a reassuring, insulated distance from discomfort and conflict is not terrifying; you cannot remove the primordial unease from the horror genre and expect it to retain its shape.

This idea of “remov[ing] the primordial unease from the horror genre” appears essential to the conceit of “cozy horror.” The reader of that genre delves in knowing the “discomfort and conflict” of the tale will be sanitized; “primordial unease” will be “imbued with a sense of humor and familiarity” and thus rendered only “comfortably scary.” 

But removing the “discomfort and conflict” of the genre undermines its requisite objective. For by neutering horror of its essential elements, real-world evils are also inadvertently trivialized.  

In his article on this emerging genre, Nicky Cammarata asks Why Is This Hitting Now? In other words, what about our present culture has facilitated the emergence of cozy horror? A fascinating question, to be sure. He answers thusly,

Because we’re tired. Because the real world is already a dumpster fire. Because sometimes we want to be unsettled, not undone.

Cozy horror thrives in a cultural moment where:

Traditional horror feels exhausting

Trauma fatigue is real

The aestheticization of doom feels more bearable than its brutal realism

It lets us explore the shadows without getting dragged under. It gives us emotional permission to feel creeped out while still staying safe.

It is oft-noted that horror stories provide a type of catharsis for their fans, with some even suggesting that imbibing the genre can be therapeutic. In this sense, scary stories offer a safe space to confront our fears. Some have even described this practice as “exposure therapy.” One academic analysis concluded,

…horror films provide a safe space for confronting existential fears, including death and the unknown while offering emotional release through intense fear and moral resolution.

That such confrontations correlate to real “existential fears,” whether it be random deaths, supernatural evil, or apocalyptic dread, is inherent to the genre. The Exorcist scares us (as do many exorcism tales) because it draws from real-world parallels. The author, William Peter Blatty, was explicit about his belief in both God and the Devil. To “cozy” such a tale would be to trivialize its essential message. 

While the “aestheticization of doom” may be intended to help us cope with life’s terrors, it only minimizes them. Toothless vampires are little threat. So while fictionally de-fanging the nocturnal beast might make for an easier read, it also unwittingly downplays real-life monsters. And those who fight them.

Chesterton famously said, “Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.” Likewise, the horror story tells us Darkness is real. Of course, we needn’t be told this. Each one of us knows, to varying degrees, the reality of sickness, death, violence, madness, madmen, and spiritual Darkness. In other words, dragons are real. By framing dragons as harmless kittens, we not only undermine the existence of real evil, but we demotivate dragon slayers. When real “existential terrors” are neutered, catharsis becomes a walk in the park. Such “dragons” needn’t be killed, only mocked.

So while the “aestheticization of doom” may help “brutal realism” seem more bearable, it also inadvertently makes “doom” appear more trivial. But can doom truly be beautified or minimized? More importantly, should it?

So, for me, cozy horror still gets the side-eye. Of course, I’m all for genre splicing and creative storytelling. But “removing the primordial unease from the horror genre” is akin to featuring toothless vampires. Better to frame moral and spiritual Darkness as something actually scary, than something without bite.