All fear is rooted in one single fear, really. We’re not actually scared of what lurks in the dark, hides around the corner, rises from the depths, or descends from beyond—our real fear comes from what any of those things might be. Until we know what’s making that strange noise, casting that weird shadow, crawling out of the ocean, or hurtling through space at us, we become paralyzed by the possibilities. Like a deer in headlights we freeze, staring obliviously at the obvious signs of danger, too small-minded to comprehend, too overwhelmed to take a closer look, and too petrified to make a move. So we do nothing. There is no rational way to respond to an unidentified threat; no way to prepare, defend, escape, or even attack. Instead we’re forced to wait and see and hope that we can cope when we do find out. And there’s nothing more terrifying than that—no greater fear than wondering what comes next; no greater dread than the basic primordial fear of the unknown.

Once our fear does take some sort of recognizable form, however, everything changes. The terror of what may come is replaced by the lower-grade horror of what showed up, but that’s a different kind of fear, one that’s rooted in an apparent threat: something that we can recognize and respond to—that is, if we can snap out of it and get our shit together in time.

If fear of the unknown is the single greatest source of our personal insecurity, then our greatest collective apprehension must be generated from our most compelling common fear: the one unknown we struggle to identify together. Chaos, death, doom and apocalypse all come to mind, but on their own they are identifiable fears. The thing that makes them truly scary isn’t the what—it’s the when. Whatever terror we believe may wait for us, there is only one place it can hide: in the murky shadows of the future.

It is said that drama is the outward expression of our inner psychology. If that’s true, then we’ve been betraying our hidden nostraphobia* through our popular stories all along, particularly in science fiction. One need only take a general survey of the most popular sci-fi subjects to see that we’re not only preoccupied with the future, but also obsessed with the end of the world.

What’s most fascinating about sci-fi doom-and-apocalypse scenarios, however, isn’t the plethora of methods of destruction we’ve dreamed up, but the similarities in our projections of how we would conceivably react. In almost every case, once the imminent threat is made apparent, all the people of the world are unified for one brief frozen moment. And then we lose our shit en masse. Instead of banding together in the face of something greater than ourselves, we disintegrate into petty squabbling sects, scurrying with fear and sacrificing one another’s security to save ourselves. And in almost every single case, this behaviour is reinforced by our history: evidence that our proven nature is one of conflict, violence, and mutual destruction.

On the surface, this seems to raise questions about change. What would it take? Are we capable? Could we cope? But like rats and cockroaches, humans have the uncanny ability to survive and propagate despite all challenges. The real fear, then, isn’t whether or not we’re able to change, but whether or not we’re willing to. Taking our history into account, it’s hard to imagine that we’d be able to get over ourselves in time to get our shit together; to snap out of the initial shock, see the oncoming headlights for what they are and get the fuck out of the way.

Beneath this apparent observation then, there is a much more menacing question: do the most terrifying elements of our fear of the future actually come from the unknown, from what may come? Or do they come from our past, from what we’ve done? Which unknown are we really most afraid of: what’s out there, or what lies within?

*Funny enough, there doesn’t seem to be an official word for the fear of the future. There are names for every other fear you can think of, from cotton wool (bambakomallophobia) to your mother in law (pentheraphobia), but nothing for the fear of what may come. So I made up nostraphobia. And now it’s official. (You heard it here first.)


The Greatest Sci-Fi End-Of-The-World Films Of All Time

Things to Come (1936)
Based on a classic H.G. Wells story, Earth perishes due to a second world war. Ha.

The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)
Ignore the remake—they completely missed the point of the most poignant message of any nostraphobic film: achieve peace or face obliteration.

War Of The Worlds (1953)
First film version of H.G. Wells’ mega-apocalyptic story that has been made legendary by Orson Wells’ infamous radio hoax (he actually convinced the USA they were under alien attack in 1938).

Meteor (1979)
One of the best (and cheesiest) of the 1970s disaster films. Ripped off later to make Armageddon.

War Games (1983)
Hackers, artificial intelligence, and nuclear obliteration drive the point home in the most apocalyptic teen movie ever made.

The Day After (1983)
The fact that a progressively senile Ronald Reagan had his finger on the button rendered this made-for-TV movie’s realistic portrayal apocalypse all the more terrifying.

Children Of Men (2006)
A whole new take on our collective demise. Just see it.