The vast world offers countless thrills, but few compare to the unique rush of seeking out cinematic terror. While some films craft an all-encompassing sense of dread, this list narrows its focus to individual moments that define fright. It’s important to remember that these scares never exist in a vacuum; each is meticulously constructed, relying on context, escalating tension, and the lingering psychological impact. A truly great scare resonates long after the screen fades.
Crucially, this discussion isn’t limited to traditional horror films. While the genre naturally provides many examples, a genuinely terrifying moment can emerge unexpectedly from a dramatic piece, sometimes with even greater force. For each category of fear we explore, we’ll highlight at least one memorable moment from a non-horror movie. With that in mind, let’s begin our journey into what truly scares an audience, starting with the age-old, reliable jump scare!
10. The Jump Scare
Built on an instantaneous release of tension, the jump scare is perhaps cinema’s purest example of setup and payoff. Its history stretches back a century to films like The Phantom of the Opera, and even earlier to the legendary tale of audiences flinching from a train on screen in early cinema. There’s a beautiful simplicity to these scares: when executed flawlessly, they deliver a sudden, unexpected jolt just as you begin to feel safe. Modern favorites include the terrifying figure in the attic from REC, a scene that pans menacingly before an abrupt reveal, and the unsettling lawnmower sequence in Sinister, which creates quiet dread before a sudden, visceral shock. Another example is the ‘Texas Switch’ technique, where a character’s apparent safety transforms into a new, frightening reality.
Non-horror films also effectively utilize the jump scare. Consider the jarring moment a fake Batman crashes into a window in The Dark Knight, adding a surprising burst of tension between a mayor and a police officer. Similarly, a startling encounter between a jewelry-crazed uncle and his adventurous nephew in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring delivers an unexpected fright.
My favorite type of jump scare doesn’t just build tension; it brutally subverts a sense of safety. I once found myself explaining this to my eight-year-old daughter while watching The Lost World. During a raptor escape, Julianne Moore’s character checks under a shed, seemingly confirming a safe escape route. The camera quickly cuts away, only to snap back to a raptor lunging. This moment, where safety is briefly promised then violently snatched away, metaphorically questions humanity’s ability to control creation.
This dynamic—tension, momentary safety, then a sudden rug-pull—is brilliantly employed in another Spielberg classic, Jaws, specifically in the “Ben Gardner’s boat” scene, our number 10 pick. The scene meticulously establishes a feeling of relative security as Matt Hooper, a character whose expertise we’ve come to trust, dives at night to investigate the fisherman’s boat. We share his confidence, even though we know a shark is out there, its presence subtly looming. Spielberg’s masterstroke is the misdirection of the tooth; finding a massive great white tooth in the hull seems like the climax of the scare. But then, unexpectedly, Ben Gardner’s severed head pops up. This jump scare is effective not just for its suddenness, but because it’s not the shark we initially feared. This preserves Hooper’s credibility and, narratively, keeps the audience on edge during a lull in shark attacks, proving essential to the film’s sustained suspense. It’s a pure shot of adrenaline, perfectly placed to enhance the entire movie’s impact.
9. The Slow Burn Scare
Moving from the sudden jolt of a jump scare, we arrive at its opposite: the slow burn. These are the scares you anticipate, yet they still creep up on you, gradually tightening their grip. Think of the relentless, creeping presence in It Follows, or the atmospheric dread woven throughout A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night. These films are rich with moments of growing unease, like the unsettling column silhouette that turns to face us in The Night House, or the disturbing cell phone footage uncovered in Lake Mungo. Even non-horror films can master this. Consider the harrowing highway scene at night in Nocturnal Animals, where the inevitable, terrifying outcome slowly becomes agonizingly clear. These are terror-inducing sequences that are impossible to turn away from.
By their very nature, the best slow burn scares require time to develop. The word “slow” is inherent in the category, emphasizing that their impact relies on a prolonged buildup rather than a single, isolated moment. Few films have executed this as masterfully as 1973’s The Wicker Man. This folk horror classic, while now widely emulated and even remade, remains powerful despite audiences often knowing its trajectory. This familiarity, however, speaks volumes about its original brilliance and enduring craft.
Sergeant Howie’s realization of his impending doom arrives just minutes from the end, but it’s the culmination of the entire film’s meticulously constructed pagan narrative. He’s been aware of the island’s peculiar customs throughout his stay, confronting the eccentric inhabitants of Summerisle and receiving surprisingly candid explanations from Lord Summerisle himself. For us, the audience, this setup is now a familiar trope, but its effectiveness in The Wicker Man is precisely why it became so influential. The film is a cult favorite for a reason, and its power is fully revealed in these final moments of dawning desperation. Howie believes he has completed his mission, but his world is abruptly pulled from under him. Trapped on a cliff, with crashing waves behind him and the calm, unwavering cultists before him, he faces his preordained sacrifice. This was always Howie’s destiny, deliberately plotted and slowly revealed for the entire runtime of the film, leaving us in the helpless shoes of a doomed man.
8. The Terrifying Image
To evoke any emotion in cinema, every technical element must align perfectly. As devotees of film craft, let’s explore moments whose scares are primarily visual. These are images that are inherently, unsettlingly scary to behold. Some films excel through their production design, creating spaces like the Pale Man’s grotesque dinner table in Pan’s Labyrinth, or the descent into a madman’s twisted mind in The Cell—indeed, much of Tarsem Singh’s work fits this description. I’d also champion stop-motion animation as a powerful medium for inherently scary visuals, showcased in films like The Wolf House, crafted from duct tape in a single take, or Phil Tippett’s magnum opus, Mad God.
However, truly terrifying visuals often make their strongest impact in non-horror films, where they are least expected. This is precisely where the term ‘Lynchian’ finds its aptest application, as much of David Lynch’s work, from bizarre chicken-cutting attempts to Dean Stockwell’s haunting karaoke, evokes deep unease without being strictly horror. For me, when considering sheer visual terror, I always return to The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover.
Peter Greenaway’s 1989 film, on paper, seems straightforward: a criminal strong-arms a chef, while his wife embarks on an affair. Yet, its presentation is anything but, and it certainly doesn’t fit neatly into the “scary movie” category. The film’s entire atmosphere is otherworldly, but rather than focusing on the whole movie, I’ll highlight its opening tracking shot through the restaurant’s back rooms. This shot immediately establishes a profoundly unsettling tone. There’s a distinct formality and artifice to the proceedings, so overt that it compels you to wonder, “what bizarre spectacle is about to unfold?”
From the eerie falsetto of a young boy singing, lost in thought, to the bullying antics of Michael Gambon’s Spica and the quiet resignation of the Chef—a man shrewd enough to choose his moments of defiance—the scene unfolds. Smoke, dark and damp back alleys, and duck feathers drifting like macabre snow all contribute to this slow, steady tracking shot. It thoroughly immerses you in a tone that feels almost paranormal, a staged morality play, a classical tragedy about to unravel in a dark and dangerous world where nothing good can endure. This early establishment of such an unsettling atmosphere makes the moment deeply impactful.
7. The Scare Built on the Sound
Let’s continue our exploration of film craft by focusing on audio. These are moments of terror that derive their power primarily from sound. Entire movies have been built around the concept of silence as survival, with A Quiet Place serving as a prime, recent example of this commitment. Sometimes, tension is meticulously built with the familiar clicking of an alien predator. Other times, it’s broken by a sudden noise, like tripping over a pet’s water bowl after a long stretch of silence. A particularly clever sequence in Invisible Man demonstrates how a character’s escape hinges entirely on their ability to move stealthily through a house. In non-horror films, sound can also deliver a sharp jolt back to reality, like the abrupt bus stop in Cat People, or the sudden intrusion of sound from the outside world that jolts isolated characters awake in Ikiru, a technique later borrowed by Darren Aronofsky for The Fountain.
We Need to Talk About Kevin features a non-horror sound that adds a profoundly disturbing aura: the titular Kevin’s awful fingernail biting. And to revisit David Lynch, the haunting sound design accompanying an old woman in one of his films, though primarily a jump scare, owes its impact to its auditory strength.
However, scary sounds truly reach their peak in horror movies, where a single spike in the audio waveform can send shivers down your spine amidst other frightening elements. Consider The Conjuring’s game of “hide and clap,” where a final, solitary clap echoes from the darkness, a moment amplified by minutes of creaks and whispers. While undeniably effective, for a scare based purely on sound, our number 7 pick goes to the chilling ‘clucking’ from Hereditary.
By the time this clucking sound appears, we understand its meaning and origin: it’s an involuntary tic of Milly Shapiro’s character, Charlie, completely beyond her control. Narratively, it implies the presence of a demon, but emotionally, it serves as a raw reminder for Toni Collette’s Annie of her profound pain and grief. This solitary tongue click in an empty car is the perfect execution of a sound-based scare.
What makes Hereditary, and indeed any truly great film, exceptional is its emotional connection to its characters. While visual or auditory shocks can startle, a scare that preys on our emotions is far more potent. Here, a grieving mother, grappling with disturbing family secrets, is pushed to her breaking point. This sound, a fragment of her daughter from the past, is the terrifying final straw, a trap meticulously laid an hour earlier, creating a heartbreaking yet terrifying jump scare.
6. The Edit
As editing is fundamentally the combination of picture and sound, it’s a natural progression for our number 6 spot after exploring audio and visual cues individually. While every scary moment on this list relies on editing to some degree, not every moment is defined by it. For instance, while the quick cut to the backseat in Hereditary amplifies the clucking sound, it isn’t the primary reason for its impact. Editing does a lot of different things, however, and looks a little different for each moment.
It’s worth noting that the editing in Psycho’s iconic shower scene has been the subject of entire documentaries, so we’ll respectfully bypass further discussion here. For other truly effective scares achieved through editing, we can look to wild montages like the ending of Don’t Look Now, which rapidly fires through a series of panicked images. My non-horror example here would be the final moments of the horrific Come and See, where our protagonist’s imagination flashes back to Hitler as a child, a powerful juxtaposition achieved through rapid cuts.
However, brilliant editing isn’t solely about flashy, quick cuts. Sometimes, its power lies in not cutting. The Exorcist III’s renowned hallway scene, an exemplary jump scare, derives its effectiveness from an incredibly long, sustained shot that slowly builds tension, forcing the audience to scrutinize the screen and anticipate the unseen. Juxtaposition is another key aspect of editing. Films like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre excel at this, using harsh, fast cuts away from gruesome acts to moments of unsettling peace. Jordan Peele’s Nope also employs a narrative function with its cuts back to a sitcom tragedy, the significance of which only gradually unfolds. But for pure editing, the masterful combination of images and sound to tell a story, Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani’s neo-giallo slasher, Amer, stands out.
At first glance, Amer might seem like a predominantly visual film, its primary language being French, with subtitles almost unnecessary. It’s a lavish, erotic, and violent tapestry of extreme close-ups, punctuated by the creaking of leather and the slicing sound of a blade as gravel crunches underfoot. The film masterfully assembles images and sounds in such a tight, breathless manner that it conveys space, time, and character almost entirely through these insert shots.
One particularly memorable moment, following a tense midnight chase through an Italian villa, erupts in a sudden, stylized burst of violence. A long stretch of quiet, breathless sneaking in blue-hued day-for-night is abruptly shattered by swooshing stabs and gasps. This leads to an even more protracted, methodically torturous death, filmed with quick inserts and a raw, animalistic sound design that makes you squirm. Amer distills the essence of giallo cinema, amplifying it through its expert editing. Without such precise cuts, these moments would be a nonsensical collection of fragments; instead, they form a sequence worthy of study for its ability to convey profound fear, anxiety, and discomfort with minimal imagery.
5. The Scare Based on Real Phobias
For the latter half of our list, let’s shift from craft-based categories to the realm of psychological fear, specifically focusing on movies that intentionally tap into well-known phobias. These fears can be explicitly addressed in the subject matter, often with minimal reliance on complex filmmaking techniques. If you have cynophobia, Cujo might be your worst nightmare. If nyctophobia plagues you, Freddy Krueger undoubtedly has a quip ready in A Nightmare on Elm Street.
Among our favorite campfire stories at CineFix are moments of claustrophobia, found in the suffocating underground tunnels of The Descent or the constricted underwater passages of the aptly named Underwater. Both films feature terrifying monsters, yet their most squirm-inducing moments often exploit the pervasive fear of enclosed spaces. Conversely, agoraphobia is famously explored by Hitchcock in North by Northwest. Then there’s the primal fear of being hopelessly lost in the woods, vividly depicted in The Blair Witch Project, or the enduring, universal fear of the dark.
Many films mentioned here feature sequences where darkness itself harbors significant danger, with something always lurking just beyond the light. However, the most ingenious twist on this timeless fear appears in the basement of a serial killer, viewed through night vision goggles, in The Silence of the Lambs.
By the climax of The Silence of the Lambs, we are acutely aware of the peril facing Jodie Foster’s Clarice. She has consistently outmaneuvered her superiors, and by the time she tracks Jame Gumb, identifies him as Buffalo Bill, and pursues him into his basement-dungeon-fashion studio, we’ve already seen the space multiple times. So, how does director Jonathan Demme heighten the terror of a familiar Act Three set piece? He extinguishes the lights.
Instead of merely letting us wallow in our collective fear of moments like this, the film shifts our perspective. We witness the scenario through the eyes of the very thing we dread: Buffalo Bill’s night vision. We see Clarice, wide-eyed and desperate for light, fumbling through the basement, and through his lens, we grasp how effortlessly he could end her life, and how he savors that cruel power. This isn’t an adrenaline-fueled jump scare; instead, this first-person perspective confirms our deepest fear—that something malevolent is lurking in the dark, waiting to strike—making the scene all the more terrifying.
4. Existential Dread / What Is This Terrifying Nonsense?
Shifting away from recognizable phobias, we now delve into a type of fear that’s harder to pinpoint: existential dread. This is when a film presents an image or concept that compels you to question your fundamental reality. For me, it simplifies to the unsettling question, “what is this terrifying nonsense?”
Jacob’s Ladder is replete with such moments. Ken Russell’s oeuvre, particularly Altered States and The Devils, often falls into this category with its fascinating and disturbing explorations. Nicholas Winding Refn’s Valhalla Rising, while not strictly a horror film, contains one of its most unsettling sequences in the seemingly simple act of stacking rocks. And, of course, David Lynch’s signature unsettling tone permeates nearly all of his work, appearing everywhere from bizarre culinary experiments to unsettling karaoke performances.
Does Mandy truly qualify as a horror film? I believe it does, though it also functions as a drug-fueled cult trip, a tale of madness and revenge that peels back the veneer of humanity to reveal profound darkness. However, it’s hard to overlook an undeniable classic, a moment that could arguably fit into almost all our categories: the unsettling “bear suit guy” from The Shining.
Two hours into Stanley Kubrick’s meticulously dissected horror masterpiece, the film accelerates into pure chaos. Jack wields an axe, relentlessly pursuing Danny, while Wendy desperately tries to secure her son’s safety. The measured pace of the film’s earlier acts gives way to utter, sanity-shattering pandemonium. Then, as Wendy ascends another staircase, she stumbles upon a man in an assless bear suit engaged in a sex act with a tuxedo-clad man, who then casually meets her gaze with an inscrutable expression.
This moment, particularly on a first viewing, perfectly embodies my definition of “what is this terrifying nonsense?” Decades of analysis have been dedicated to its meaning and metaphorical depth, and every theory holds merit, which is precisely what makes this scene so powerful. On the surface, it’s a profoundly bizarre image nestled within an escalating sequence of terror. Wendy’s husband is attempting to murder her and their son, she cannot locate him, the hotel is unequivocally haunted, and then she encounters this singularly upsetting tableau. While few of us have experienced such a specific confluence of events, the scene’s Rorschach-like quality—its ability to reflect your own deepest fears—underscores its existential terror.
3. SHOCK!!!
As we enter the final third of our list, we must delve into body horror, a subgenre responsible for countless terrifying cinematic moments. The shock and grotesquerie of witnessing the human body pushed beyond its natural limits instantly taps into our most primal fears. The Mount Rushmore of body horror features unforgettable scenes: the chest-chomper and spider-head from John Carpenter’s The Thing (indeed, most of The Thing could fill this category), Jeff Goldblum’s harrowing transformation into BrundleFly, and the tape-deck tummy in Videodrome, which cements David Cronenberg’s status as an all-time master. An American Werewolf in London’s groundbreaking transformation scene is also etched into cinematic history, so we’ll move beyond these well-known examples.
Beyond these titans, other films offer equally shocking and violent moments of disfigurement. Consider the brutal scene in Green Room where an arm is caught on the wrong side of a door, the horrific suicide jump in Midsommar, or the disturbing hooks dance sequence in Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria remake. All these moments are incredibly sudden and deeply unsettling.
But body horror also has a quieter, more insidious side. Think of Black Swan, a film that deftly blurs the lines between a “scary movie that’s not horror” and a full-fledged horror film, as it chronicles a ballerina’s slow descent into something monstrous. Nightcrawler, too, could be argued as a form of mental body horror, delving into the depths of ambition that mentally warp a character. For our number 3 spot, however, I cherish two films for their subtler approach to body horror: The Skin I Live In and Eyes Without A Face.
These two films, though unrelated (The Skin I Live In is not a remake of Eyes Without A Face), serve as fascinating companions. Both feature renowned surgeons performing experimental procedures in their homes, driven by a desire to right a perceived wrong with yet another horrifying one. Pedro Almodóvar’s 2011 film and Georges Franju’s 1960 film share a clinical approach to body modification. The doctors involved are so utterly committed to their “why”—their motivations—that they never question their actions. This is most evident in the quiet, mundane details: the simple, straightforward way a victim is drugged, Dr. Ledgard’s casual examination of his work’s progress, and above all, the unsettling comfort with which they operate, heedless of exposure. These films don’t rely on overt gore or sudden bone-snapping; instead, they disturb by showcasing highly intelligent, skilled individuals with relatable motivations performing unspeakable acts without a second thought. If body horror aims to push the human form beyond its limits, making you squirm as you watch, then The Skin I Live In and Eyes Without A Face force you to confront what you might do with such power, eliciting the same visceral discomfort.
2. The All-Consuming Terror
With only two spots remaining, we transition to the realm of all-consuming terror—moments that create profound unease and then force you to steep in it. This differs from slow-burn or existential scares in that these moments are often more self-contained, confronting the viewer with a very specific, inescapable feeling. Much of Nosferatu, particularly when the vampyre attacks children, exemplifies this. So too does Get Out’s iconic Sunken Place sequence, or the chilling imagery of the girls walking away in slow motion from Picnic at Hanging Rock while their friend remains trapped at regular speed.
This category also sees considerable success in non-horror films. I personally find Barry Keoghan’s spaghetti-eating scene in The Killing of a Sacred Deer utterly terrifying, not to mention the later, disquieting sequences in Mother! However, the all-consuming scene I think of most often is the beach sequence in Under the Skin.
Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin, a dark inversion of E.T., features an alien abducting men across Scotland for her studies. On a beach, as she lures her next subject, a surfer, a tragedy unfolds in the water nearby. A dog swims too far; a woman attempts a rescue, followed by a man trying to save her, and finally, the surfer attempts to save them all. They all fail, leaving an infant alone on the shore. It’s an unsettling scene just to describe, but its true brilliance lies in Glazer’s masterful direction. The powerful roar of the waves drowns out all other sound. Glazer employs long lenses, creating a detached perspective that mirrors the alien protagonist’s lack of empathy, preventing us from connecting or intervening.
This scene is also pivotal in setting up her journey throughout the rest of the film, marking an Act One turning point where she begins to yearn for human experience. Witnessing a family drown, and an infant abandoned, all from such a cold, distant perspective, is what makes this movie truly incredible, featuring a profoundly terrifying cinematic moment.
1. Fear of the Nothingness / Void / Oh God Whatever’s Next
As we reach our ultimate category, we stand at the opposite end of the spectrum from the jump scare that began our list. For this final spot, I want to address a universal human fear: the certainty of death. Regardless of background or individual anxieties, the knowledge that one day, for unknown reasons, we will simply cease to exist is a terror shared by all. Films capable of crafting a scary moment around this unknowable void beyond death are rare gems.
Naturally, there are powerful plot twists that hint at this, famously employed in The Others and The Sixth Sense. However, Lars von Trier’s super slow-motion overture in Melancholia, which stares unflinchingly at the end of existence, aligns more closely with what we’re seeking. 2001: A Space Odyssey achieves a similar cosmic feat with Dave Bowman’s life cycle, presenting an uncomfortable—and dare I say, scary—thread of thought at the conclusion of its mind-bending science fiction narrative.
But the moment and movie I truly want to highlight is more recent, with a title that echoes the oldest fears in human storytelling: the montage of time passing in 2017’s A Ghost Story.
What starts as an intimate tale of grief, with a ghost silently observing his partner moving on, dramatically shifts focus to the entire world progressing. Approximately two-thirds through the film, writer/director David Lowery presents a breathtaking montage depicting the relentless march of time from the ghost’s perspective. It’s eerie, unsettling, and edited with magnificent fluidity, making it feel as though it’s unfolding in real time. We witness a skyscraper being constructed in two minutes on the very spot where his house once stood, culminating in the ghost’s decision to leap from the building.
The montage portrays time itself as incalculably vast, imparting a profound sense of loneliness, desperation, and even damnation upon the long-waiting ghost—a truly terrifying contemplation. Lowery, who also edited the film, employs this time-lapse technique throughout, but it never feels more ingenious or impactful than in this particular sequence. As the spirit lingers, this moment elevates the story beyond one dead man’s experience, transforming it into a meditation on memory, legacy, and their microscopic significance against the backdrop of eternity. For my money, nowhere is that driven home more powerfully than in this montage of an eternal fraction passing, making it one of the scariest movie moments of all time.