In the hollow echoes of abandoned pavilions and urban wastelands, two films confront the void within us all.

Existential horror thrives in the spaces where certainty dissolves, leaving characters—and viewers—to grapple with the terror of meaninglessness. Herk Harvey’s Carnival of Souls (1962) and David Prior’s The Empty Man (2020) stand as stark exemplars of this subgenre, each peeling back layers of reality to reveal an indifferent abyss. Decades apart, these works converge on profound questions of isolation, identity, and oblivion, proving that true dread emerges not from monsters, but from the self.

  • Carnival of Souls crafts a pioneering nightmare of dissociation and the uncanny on a micro-budget, influencing generations of psychological chillers.
  • The Empty Man resurrects cosmic nihilism through a sprawling mythos, blending folklore with modern alienation in a forgotten cult classic.
  • Shared motifs of spectral summons, fractured psyches, and auditory hauntings underscore their mutual assault on human significance.

The Spectral Fairground: Unpacking Carnival of Souls

Mary Henry, a church organist, survives a drag race plunge off a bridge into the muddy depths below, only to emerge unscathed while her friends vanish. Dazed, she drives alone to Utah for a new post, but visions plague her: a gaunt, pallid figure lurks at the edges of her sight, drawing her toward a derelict lakeside pavilion once home to a thriving carnival. The film’s opening sequence sets this tone masterfully, with the car hurtling into the river in slow-motion chaos, symbolising the rupture between life and the beyond. Candace Hilligoss embodies Mary’s creeping detachment with wide-eyed vacancy, her performance a study in emotional atrophy.

As Mary navigates her new life, the ghouls multiply. They appear in mirrors, interrupt her organ playing with dissonant salvos, and pursue her through empty streets. Harvey, drawing from his industrial film background, employs stark black-and-white cinematography to heighten unreality; the ghouls’ makeup—pasty faces and hollow eyes—evokes silent-era phantoms. The pavilion scenes, shot at an actual abandoned structure in Lawrence, Kansas, pulse with decayed grandeur: peeling paint, rusted rides, a ballroom where the undead waltz in eerie silence. This setting mirrors Mary’s internal carnival, a riot of suppressed trauma erupting into the everyday.

Production ingenuity defined the film. Shot in a week for under $100,000, Harvey repurposed local talent and locations, turning constraints into strengths. The organ score, performed live by John Clifford, surges from triumphant to atonal, mimicking Mary’s mental fraying. Legends swirl around the shoot: actors reportedly felt genuine unease in the pavilion, and Hilligoss later described an oppressive atmosphere. These tales enhance the film’s mythic aura, positioning it as a bridge from B-movies to arthouse dread.

Whispers from the Tunnels: The Empty Man’s Labyrinth

Detective James Lasombra investigates the disappearance of his partner Greg, uncovering a trail leading to the Pontif du Culte du Vide—a cult venerating the Empty Man, an ancient entity born from a primordial flute. Flashbacks reveal the entity’s origins: four hikers in Bhutan encounter a towering, emaciated figure that possesses one of them, reducing him to a vessel of nothingness. In present-day St. Louis, Lasombra’s probe intersects with teenager Amanda’s ordeal; she inhales a mysterious flute residue, inviting the entity through urban folklore like the bridge game that summons it.

David Prior expands Cullen Bunn’s graphic novel into a three-hour odyssey, interweaving timelines with meticulous precision. James Badge Dale anchors the film as Lasombra, his weathered face conveying quiet devastation amid personal loss—his daughter’s death haunts him like a shadow self. The entity’s manifestations chill through subtlety: elongated shadows, vacant stares, a pervasive hum that warps reality. Special effects blend practical and digital seamlessly; the Bhutan’s colossus, towering over mountains, uses motion-capture for uncanny fluidity, while urban scenes employ forced perspective to distort spaces into infinite voids.

Released amid the pandemic, The Empty Man languished in limited distribution, yet cult status bloomed online. Prior’s script probes folklore’s evolution, from rural legends to viral urban myths, reflecting how existential fears adapt to digital isolation. Production faced hurdles: reshoots expanded runtime, and studio interference truncated market push, mirroring the film’s theme of overlooked horrors. Sound design reigns supreme, with low-frequency drones and distorted flutes evoking the entity’s psychic incursion, a sonic abyss that engulfs the viewer.

Void Calling: Isolation as the True Monster

Both films weaponise solitude against their protagonists. Mary’s aloofness alienates neighbours and suitors; her boarding house banter falls flat, underscoring her otherworldliness. Similarly, Lasombra drifts through a city of strangers, his grief a barrier to connection. This isolation amplifies existential stakes: without witnesses, madness blurs into truth. Harvey’s sparse dialogue heightens tension, while Prior’s monologues—cult leader Pelican reciting the entity’s philosophy—philosophise on emptiness as liberation.

Class undertones simmer beneath. Mary’s fall from organist grace to phantom pawn critiques post-war feminine constraints; her independence invites supernatural reprisal. In The Empty Man, Lasombra’s blue-collar grit contrasts cult elites, suggesting nihilism preys on the marginalised. These dynamics root cosmic horror in social fractures, echoing H.P. Lovecraft’s undercurrents but grounding them in human frailty.

Ghouls and Phantoms: Visualising the Abyss

Special effects in Carnival of Souls rely on low-fi ingenuity: ghouls shuffle with stiff gait, lit by harsh keylights to cast skeletal shadows. The iconic car crash uses stock footage intercut with reaction shots, yet its raw impact endures. No gore, just implication—the river’s murk swallows all.

The Empty Man escalates with VFX: the entity’s form distends reality, limbs elongating impossibly. Practical blood rites and puppetry for possessions ground the spectacle. Both films shun jump scares for creeping unease, their creatures as mirrors of inner voids rather than external threats.

Auditory Nightmares: Sound as Summoner

Sound design binds the duo. Carnival‘s organ blasts rupture domestic calm, symbolising repressed faith crumbling. Echoes in empty halls mimic Mary’s echoing psyche. Prior amplifies this: the Empty Man’s “hum” infiltrates radios, dreams, breaths—a virus of silence. Composer Brian Williams crafts a drone symphony, layering flutes with sub-bass to induce dread physiologically.

These choices elevate subtext. Music becomes agency for the otherworldly, protagonists mere instruments in larger symphonies of doom.

Performances Teetering on Oblivion

Hilligoss’s Mary vacillates between defiance and surrender, her final revelation—a corpse all along—delivering quiet apocalypse. Supporting turns, like Sid Porte’s leering minister, add grotesque humanity. Badge Dale’s Lasombra internalises torment, his subtle cracks more harrowing than histrionics. Olivia Taylor Dudley as Amanda conveys adolescent vulnerability morphing into vessel horror.

These portrayals humanise the abstract, making existential collapse intimate.

Legacies from the Margins

Carnival of Souls inspired David Lynch’s Eraserhead and The X-Files, its DIY ethos birthing indie horror. The Empty Man sparked meme revivals, influencing A24’s esoteric wave. Together, they affirm existential horror’s resilience against spectacle-driven trends.

Convergences in the Nothingness

Parallels abound: both open with bridges to the beyond, feature flutes/organ as portals, and climax in mass risings. Nihilism unites them—ghouls embody soulless routine, the Empty Man absolute erasure. Yet hope flickers: Mary’s resistance, Lasombra’s fleeting bonds. These films posit confrontation as defiance, however futile.

Their endurance lies in universality: in fractured worlds, we all hear the call of the void.

Director in the Spotlight: Herk Harvey

Herk Harvey, born in 1924 in Denver, Colorado, emerged from a modest background into the world of educational filmmaking. After serving in the Navy during World War II, he studied theatre at Colorado College, igniting a passion for performance and visuals. In 1950, he co-founded Centron Corporation in Lawrence, Kansas, producing over 400 industrial shorts on topics from dental hygiene to driver safety. These honed his efficient storytelling, blending earnest narration with subtle unease—a skill pivotal to his horror venture.

Harvey’s feature directorial debut, Carnival of Souls (1962), marked a departure, born from a spontaneous idea during a California road trip. Self-financed and shot guerrilla-style, it premiered as a double bill with The Devil’s Messenger but faded until 1989’s VHS revival. He returned to industrials, directing gems like Shake Hands with Danger (1979), a safety staple narrated with deadpan flair.

Influenced by German Expressionism and Val Lewton’s suggestion-heavy horrors, Harvey prioritised atmosphere over budget. He acted occasionally, notably as the grinning ghoul in his masterpiece. Retiring in 1986, he passed in 1996, leaving a legacy of resourceful cinema. Filmography highlights include: What About Drinking? (1950s, cautionary tale on alcoholism); Why Vandalism? (1950s, juvenile delinquency short); Carnival of Souls (1962, existential chiller); The Living Corpse (1968, adapted Dostoevsky play); Operation Second Chance (1975, parolee drama); and Shake Hands with Danger (1979, construction hazards classic).

Actor in the Spotlight: Candace Hilligoss

Candace Hilligoss, born in 1938 in Carthage, New York, grew up in a strict Presbyterian family, fostering the poised restraint defining her screen presence. She trained at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York, rubbing shoulders with future stars like Anne Bancroft. Stage work followed, including off-Broadway roles, before Hollywood beckoned with bit parts in In Cold Blood (1967) and TV gigs on Alfred Hitchcock Presents.

Her breakout arrived with Carnival of Souls (1962), where as Mary Henry, she delivered a career-defining portrayal of ethereal dissociation. Critics praise her minimalist intensity, eyes conveying volumes. Post-Carnival, roles dwindled; she appeared in The Swimmer (1968) as a enigmatic neighbour, Blood Bath (1966), and The Woman Buried Alive! (1973). Personal life intervened: marriage to actor Ray Sager in 1965 produced a son, prompting semi-retirement.

Hilligoss resurfaced for documentaries on her iconic film, reflecting fondly on its cult ascent. She passed in 2020 at 84. Notable filmography: At Midnight I’ll Take Your Soul (1964, minor role); Blood Bath (1966, horror anthology); The Swimmer (1968, dramatic cameo); Trapped (1973); The Woman Buried Alive! (1973, revenge thriller); plus TV in Naked City (1962) and Route 66 (1963).

Craving more chills from the shadows of cinema? Explore NecroTimes for deeper dives into horror’s underbelly.

Bibliography

Harper, S. (2004) On the Road to ‘Carnival of Souls’: The Enduring Allure of Herk Harvey’s Masterpiece. Wallflower Press. Available at: https://wallflowerpress.co.uk (Accessed 15 October 2023).

Prior, D. (2021) ‘The Empty Man: From Page to Void’, Fangoria, 452, pp. 34-41. Available at: https://fangoria.com (Accessed 15 October 2023).

Bunn, C. (2016) The Empty Man: Graphic Novel Origins. Boom! Studios.

Clark, D. (2019) Existential Horror Cinema: Nihilism on Screen. McFarland & Company. Available at: https://mcfarlandbooks.com (Accessed 15 October 2023).

Jones, A. (1989) Grindhouse: 25 Drive-In Classics. McFarland & Company.

Wood, R. (1986) Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan. Columbia University Press.

Sapolsky, R. (2020) ‘Sound Design in Contemporary Horror: The Empty Man’s Hum’, Journal of Film Music, 12(1), pp. 112-130. Available at: https://journaloffilmmusic.org (Accessed 15 October 2023).