Hey folks, welcome back to Obsession Bites, the Bite Size podcast series where we explore the darker, eerie side of horror in and around 30 minutes or less. I'm Richard, and today we're digging into some of the most unexpected and often overlooked places where horror can thrive. Now we've talked about horror in our everyday lives, like the suburban nightmares, the grocery store late at night, but what about those strange in between places, the forgotten corners of life that seem totally safe during the day but transform into something terrifying once the lights go out. So buckle up, because today we're talking about airports, schools after dark, empty amusement parks, and public transportation. Let's get started. Airports normally places full of excitement and anticipation can become such unsettling spaces for horror. Airports are designed for movement, for transition, think about it, people are constantly coming and going, rushing to their gates, grabbing food on the fly, or waiting for their next flight. It's a controlled chaos, right, but what happens when the movement stops? What happens when the airport is almost empty? I think we've all experienced that strange moment where you're waiting for a flight at an odd hour and suddenly the place feels different, the bustling crowds are gone, the shops are closed, the cleaning crew might be around, but even they move like shadows. You're left with this massive quiet space and you can hear every sound, the hum of the escalators, the low buzz of fluorescent lights, maybe an overhead announcement about a flight that left hours ago. Now let's amplify that, what if it wasn't just quiet and empty, what if something or someone was lurking in those deserted terminals? Ensure yourself walking down one of those long endless con courses, you see the rows of seats all empty, the lights are dim and as you walk you hear a faint echo of your footsteps behind you, but you're sure you're alone, right? Yeah, the sound persists, just a beat behind yours. Airports are already places where we feel displaced and adding that element of the unknown heightens the tension. Airports are built for temporary stays, you're never supposed to be in one for long, this creates a unique sense of unease when you find yourself in an airport after hours, they are spaces of limbo, not quite belonging to anywhere and they aren't meant to be permanent, think about it, airports are places where everyone is trying to get somewhere else, they're not destinations, they're gateways, but what if you were stuck there, inherently unsettling about being stuck in a place like this, airports, like hospitals or hotels are spaces of constant transition, you're between one place and another, which makes the idea of being trapped there, physically or mentally, all the more terrifying, horror loves to play with this in between space, it's the feeling of being caught in a limbo that you can't escape from. You're not home, but you're not anywhere else either, it's kind of nowhere and that's deeply unnerving, it taps into our anxiety about being stuck in a place we don't belong, it's not just about being physically stuck but emotionally stuck too, like you've lost your way and might never leave. Now let's imagine you're walking down a completely deserted terminal, the fight departs your boards still flicker with information, but every single one says delayed or cancelled, you check your watch, it's 3am and you're not sure if you're dreaming or stuck in some nightmare version of an airport. The baggage carousels aren't moving and there's not a single airline attendant inside, but you hear something, first it's just the hum of the automated announcement reminding you not to leave your baggage unattended, but then, faintly, from one of the distant gates you hear the sound of someone dragging a suitcase, it echoes down the terminal getting closer but you can't see anyone, you start to walk faster heading toward the exit, but the automatic doors, those sliding glass doors that are supposed to open for you, stay shut. You push the button, nothing happens, and that sound, the suitcase dragging closer and closer, still no one in sight, airports have this ability to fill both hyper-modern and completely eerie, especially when they're supposed to be places of connection and movement, but suddenly become places where you feel trapped. Now the idea of horror in airports has been used in films, but in my opinion surprisingly it's underutilized. One great example is quarantine 2, terminal, where a plane lands and the passengers are quarantined inside the terminal as a deadly virus breaks out, the movie plays on the isolation and the sense that even though you're in the vast space, you're completely trapped. Another interesting take in this is the Langoliers based on Stephen King's novella, a group of passengers fall asleep on a plane and they wake up to find themselves alone, both on the plane and in the airport. There's no one else around and time itself seems to have disappeared, the abandoned airport becomes this eerie otherworldly place where the usual rules no longer apply, it's one of those stories where the airport is more than just a setting, it's a character in itself, representing the unknown and the inescapable. There's also a final destination, which has that memorable opening scene in an airport, where one of the characters has a premonition that their plane will crash. The airport in the moment becomes a space of dread, this in between place where the attention builds before the real horror begins, it's the idea that airports are a place where your fate is out of your control, which is already unsettling for a lot of people including myself. So why do airports work so well as a setting for horror? I think it's because they represent that feeling of being in between, of being out of control, their places of movement, but when that movement stops, the space itself feels wrong, airports normally full of life and purpose become eerie when they're empty. It's a space that's designed to get you from one place to another, but when you're stuck there, it feels like you'll never leave. Next time you're sitting in an empty airport terminal, just imagine what might be lurking in the shadows between those gates, waiting for the moment when you let your guard down, it's not just the fear of being alone, it's the fear of being stuck somewhere, that's not meant for you to stay. Alright, this next setting, I know most of us have spent a good chunk of our lives in, and it's schools. They're usually bustling with noise, students laughing, walkers slamming, teachers talking, but what happens when that final level rings? The students head home, and the hallways empty. Schools, especially at night, take on a whole new, eerie quality. That's something many of us have experienced at some point, whether staying late for an after school event, or a play, or maybe detention, and let's be real, being in school after hours can be unsettling in a way that's hard to explain. Schools are supposed to be safe, familiar environments, we're comfortable in them, but once the lights dim, the familiarity starts to break down, have you ever noticed how different a school feels when it's empty? It's almost like the building itself changes, the once familiar hallway seems to stretch longer, the sound of a door creaking open feels louder. Every flicker of light or distant echo of a lock or closing becomes more pronounced. More ominous. That's because schools, like other everyday spaces, thrive on activity, they're not meant to be empty. When a school is alive with people, it's filled with movement, sound, and energy, but the moment all of that disappears, the silence that fills its place feels oppressive. That silence can be deafening, especially when you're used to the constant background noise. The way sound carries in those big empty spaces, the squeak of a shoe on the polished floor, the distant of a vending machine, suddenly every little thing feels like it has weight, it's disorienting almost. One thing that makes schools particularly eerie after hours is the layout. Think about it, schools are designed with long, straight hallways, open spaces like cafeterias or gyms, and dozens of doors and windows. When you're walking down an empty school hallway at night, it's hard not to feel like someone or something could be watching you from the shadows. Your mind starts to place tricks on you, is that your reflection in the glass, or is it someone standing just out of sight. What if a door creaks open just a little too slowly? What if you hear footsteps echoing behind you? But when you turn around, no one is there. Schools are full of corners, nooks, and crannies where something could be hiding, and it's the sense of being watched or not being alone that really gets under our skin. There's this psychological phenomenon called the gaze, the feeling that someone's eyes are on you, even when you can't see them. Schools with their large windows, long hallways, and rows of lockers are perfect for this. Every shadow feels like it's hiding something. Every sound is potential threat. Now imagine the scenario, you're alone in a school building after hours. The janitor left long ago, the security guard is making rounds on the far side of the campus, and it's just you, the dim emergency lights and the creaks of the old building, settling in for the night. You're heading down the hallway toward the exit, your footsteps, the only sound in the stillness. But then you hear something else, footsteps that aren't yours coming from a few hallways over. You pick up your pace, but the sound follows you, growing louder, you turn a corner, and all the classroom doors are slightly ajar, something that wasn't the case earlier. The lockers lining the walls seem to loom over you, and in the dim lighting every shadow looks like it could be hiding something, someone, waiting for the right moment to strike. You pass by the darkened gem where the bleachers are pulled out, but completely empty. The door creaks open, and for a split second, you see a movement in the shadows, the silence, the emptiness, it feels self-acating. Schools have been used as a setting in some great horror films, Think of the gals, where a group of students are trapped in a high school after dark, haunted by a spirit of a student who died in a tragic accident years before. The film uses an empty school setting brilliantly, the echoing gymnasium, the deserted hallways, the theater stage that feels like a portal to something dark and unseen. The idea that something evil can be lurking in a place we spent so much time in during our childhood, it's really unsettling. Another great example is Carrie. While Carrie isn't entirely about a school setting, the climatic prom scene takes place in a high school where what should have been a magical night turns into a horrific bloodbath. The school, a place of learning and safety, becomes the site of one of the most iconic acts of revenge in horror history. The destruction of the school mirrors, the breakdown of Carrie's psyche, and the once safe normal environment becomes a literal hellscape. And then of course, there's Scream. The infamous scene where Ghostface Stocks Sydney through the empty high school corridors is a master class intention. The school, which should be bustling with students, is eerily quiet in the sense that something is about to happen keeps building and building until the inevitable confrontation. Schools aren't just places of learning, they're places of control, rules, and authority. When those rules break down, when the safety net of teachers and students are gone, the space becomes chaotic, the structure that once made you feel safe now becomes a cage. There's no longer the comfort of knowing a teacher or security guard is just down the hall. Instead, you're left alone with your thoughts, and whatever else might be lurking in the shadows. There's a deeper layer to why schools make such good horror settings. There are places where we grew up, where we were taught right from wrong, and where we learned to follow the rules. But in horror, those rules no longer reply. The things that should protect us, like lockers, classrooms, and even the school bell become symbols of entrapment. In a way, it's a reflection of how horror often taps into our childhood fears and insecurities. Schools for many are places where we felt pressure to fit in, to follow rules, and to conform. When those pressures become twisted into something more sinister, the horror hits even harder. Schools are places we associate with safety and routine, but when they're empty, when the lights go out and the noise disappears, they become something else entirely. The vast hallways, the darkened classrooms, the empty gymnasiums, they all become stages for our worst fears to come to life. And there's something about being in a place so familiar, a place we've all spent so much time in that makes it even more terrifying when things go wrong. So the next time you find yourself walking through a dark school hallway, whether in real life or in your nightmares, just remember, you might not be as alone as you'd think. Our next setting is, let's talk about amusement parks. Just saying the words probably brings a smile to your face, right? The bright lights, the rush of roller coasters, the laughter of people enjoying their day, it's all designed to be fun, to make you feel alive, to give you that adrenaline rush as you fly through the air, or scream your way through the haunted house. But what happens when all of that stops? What happens when the sun goes down, the red shut off, and the gates get closed behind you? Suddenly, amusement park becomes the perfect setting for horror. There's something so unsettling about the contrast between amusement park and the daylight, full of life, and the same park at night, completely deserted. It's the juxtaposition of joy and fear. Amusement parks are meant to be a place of pure fun, and yet, when they're empty, they transform into something entirely different. The silence becomes deafening, the rides become frozen monsters, and every shadow hides something sinister. It's like the soul of the park has gone to sleep, leaving only its skeleton behind. Imagine yourself walking through an empty amusement park at night. The carnival music is still faintly playing on a loop, but now it's warped, distant, almost mocking. The ferris will stand still, towering over the park like a giant, watching everything below. The roller coasters, once full of screams of excitement, are now just dark twisted tracks leaving nowhere. The laughter is stopped, the lights have dimmed, and all that's left is the eerie creaking of the rides in the wind. What makes abandoned amusement parks so scary isn't just the empty rides or the darkness, it's the way they play with your sense of familiarity. During the day, these are places of safety and excitement. You know what to expect, cotton candy, arcade games, funhouse mirrors, but at night, all of that becomes twisted. The funhouse mirrors no longer reflect your excitement, they distort you into something unrecognizable. The clowns and mascots, once goofy and harmless, now seem like they're watching you, waiting for you to turn your back. There's a psychological tension here, you're in a place that's supposed to be fun, but now it feels dangerous, and it's that transformation that really gets under your skin. When something that's meant to be joyful becomes unsettling, it throws your sense of reality into question. If you can't trust an amusement park to be safe, then what else can you trust? There's reason amusement parks have been used as settings in some of the most effective horror films, they're designed to give you that thrill to take you to the edge of fear in a controlled environment, but when that control is taken away, the fear becomes real. Take Carnival's Souls for example, in the film, an abandoned amusement park serves as the backdrop for a woman's descent into madness. The rusting rides and decaying carnival booths are more than just scenery, they represent her own mental deterioration. The park is no longer a place of fun, but a place of isolation and dread. More recently, we have movies like Hunt, where a group of friends visit an extreme haunted house attraction, only to find out that the horrors inside are all too real. The film plays on our level of being scared in a controlled environment and turns it upside down, making us question whether we're really safe even when we think we are. And then there's the Funhouse, a slasher film set, and you guessed it, an amusement park. The Funhouse, with its distorted mirrors and creepy animatronics, becomes the perfect setting for a group of teenagers to be haunted by a masked killer. The setting itself adds to the tension, because it's supposed to be a place where you face your fears in a safe way, but once the safety net is removed, the fear becomes all too real. Amusement parts are built on the idea of escapeism, they're designed to transport us to a world where anything is possible, where reality is suspended and where we can forget our problems for a while. But what happens when that fantasy turns into a nightmare? There's something deeply unsettling about the idea of being trapped in a place that's supposed to make you feel safe, that's supposed to be fun. You might want it to go out in the right stop, the fantasy crumbles, and you're left with the cold. You know, the hard reality of a place you're in, the park is no longer in escape, it feels like a trap. This is why amusement parks work so well as a horse heading, they represent the thin line between reality and fantasy. During the day, there are places where anything can happen, where you can fly through the air on a roller coaster, it goes lost in a mirror maze. But at night, the fantasy becomes something darker, something more dangerous. The things that once made you feel invincible now make you feel vulnerable. Amusement parts are the perfect setting for horror because they play on our love of thrill seeking and escapeism, but when the lights go out and the fun stops, they become places of dread. The very things that once brought us joy, roller coasters, find houses, carnival games, turn into objects of fear. There's something deeply unsettling about the contrast between a place that's supposed to be full of life and laughter and at the same place when it's empty and silent, it's like the soul of the park has gone to sleep, leaving behind only the skeleton of what used to be. So next time you're at an amusement park, take a moment to think about what it would be like after dark, when the gates are locked and the reds are still. Who or what might be still lurking in the shadows? The last setting I want to cover is transportation. Whether it's the cramped seats of a bus, the eerie silence of an empty subway station or the claustrophobic cabin of an airline has long been used as a setting for horror. There's something uniquely terrifying about being on the move, trapped in a small place with no way to escape. You're surrounded by strangers, forced into close proximity and often at a mercy of forces completely outside of your control. And when things start to go wrong, the sense of isolation and helplessness becomes way overwhelming. One of the key reasons transportation settings work so well in horror is the built in claustrophobia. Whether you're on a bus, a plane or a train, you're stuck, there's no way out, you can't get off when things start to go south. You're confined to this moving vehicle, hurtling through space at high speeds, with no real control over where you're going or how fast you'll get there. It's that loss of control, that inability to escape that creates such intense psychological tension. Think about it, when you're in a car, on a bus or in a plane, there's a sense of vulnerability you're entrusting your safety to someone else. And if something goes wrong, you're essentially powerless. If the driver of your bus is acting strange, if the plane hits turbulence, if the subway car suddenly stops between stations, you have no way to protect yourself or get out. And horror thrives on that kind of helplessness. Imagine the scenario, you're running late so you hop on the next bus that comes by. It's late at night, the streets are quiet, and the bus is nearly empty. But first you don't think much of it, the driver doesn't speak, and a few passengers scattered around the seats, they're silent, staring ahead. But as the bus takes an unexpected turn down a dark street, you don't recognize you start to feel uneasy. The landmarks outside the window grow unfamiliar, and the street lights get dimmer until there are none at all. You try to ask the driver where the bus is going, but he doesn't respond. The few other palace strangers won't look at you, their faces hidden in the shadow. You check your phone, but there's no signal. The bus keeps driving deeper into the unknown territory. And the once quiet passengers start whispering. You can't make out what they're saying, but something about their tone makes the hairs on your back. Of your necks stand up, you glance up the driver again, but now you can't tell if he's even human. It's that moment when you realize you're on the wrong bus, going somewhere you never meant to go. That encapsulates the horror of transportation. You're trapped, moving towards something terrible, and there's no way to get off. There's a reason so many horror films use transportation as a setting, it's perfect bland of isolation, claustrophobia, and movement. One great example is Train to Busan. The film is set almost entirely on a speeding trade during a zombie outbreak. The characters are trapped in the narrow corridors of train cars. With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, the fast pace of the train mirrors the relentless pace of the zombies creating a sense of constant movement and impending doom. The train becomes a literal vehicle for the horror, propelling the characters toward their fate. Then there's one of my favorites, the Midnight Meat Train. Set in the underground subway system, the film follows a photographer who becomes obsessed with string of mysterious disappearances. The dark, gritty subway tunnels create an atmosphere of dread, and the cramped subway cars provide perfect setting for the film's brutal claustrophobic vines. Another great example is Red Eye, where the entire film takes place on an airplane. The combined space strangers all around you and the knowledge is at your 30,000 feet in the air with no way to escape. It's the perfect setting for psychological horror. The film plays on fear of being trapped in space, where you have no control, where the danger is sitting right next to you, and where there's nowhere to run. Transportation, especially in horror often represents a loss of control. When you're driving your car, you have control. To the direction, the speed, and when to stop. But when you're on a bus, or a plane, or a train, you're at the mercy of the vehicle, and it's operator. You don't know where they're taking you, and if something goes wrong, there's very little you can do about it. In horror, this loss of control can be literal, like when the driver of a bus or train is revealed to be dangerous, or it can be a metaphorical representing a loss of control over one's life or fate. The vehicle becomes a symbol for being carried along by forces beyond your control, heading toward an unknown and often dangerous destination. It's why so many ghost stories feature haunted trans, or why so many urban legends revolve around mysterious buses that pick up passengers who are never seen again. There's something inherently frightening about being in a vehicle that's supposed to take you somewhere safe, but instead, it's taking you somewhere terrifying. Transportation hubs and vehicles, whether it's a bus, a planter subway, are perfect settings for horror because they trap us in confined spaces, surrounded by strangers with no way to escape. The force is us to confront our lack of control, our vulnerability, and the ever-present fear that we're being taken somewhere we don't want to go. Next time you're sitting on a bus late at night or waiting at an empty subway station, just remember, when you step onto that vehicle, you're no longer in control. And in the world of horror, that's when the real tear begins. What do all these places, airports, schools, amusement parks, and subways, have in common? They're all places we know, places we've been in a hundred times. But when they're empty, or when something unexpected happens, they become alien to us. And that's what makes them perfect for horror. Horror doesn't just exist in the haunted houses or the dark forests. It's all around us, in the forgotten corners of our everyday lives, and it's those places, the ones we take for granted that can turn terrifying when we least expect it. Thanks for joining me on this journey through the Forgotten Corners of Horror. If you liked this episode, be sure to subscribe, leave a review, and let me know what other unusual places you think would make a great horror setting. I'm always opening new ideas. Well, until next time, stay obsessed. [Music] [BLANK_AUDIO]
