Fright is one of those innate human faculties, like humor or eroticism, that is subjective beyond persuasion; one is either scared by something or not, and it’s usually futile to convince them otherwise. Still, when I stroll past various message boards and lists on the internets that cite everything from Chopin’s “Funeral March” to ’60s novelty tripe like “Monster Mash” as the “scariest music ever!” I can’t help but wonder how long these people been sleeping with the night-light on. Seriously, that’s the scariest music you can think of? I understand that music can bring out a multitude of emotions in the average listener, but folks, The Cure’s “Love Song” is not scary; maybe ‘dreary’ was the word you were looking for? I was going to drop a “Top Ten Scariest Songs” post last year around this time, but lost interest when I reminded myself that Halloween holds a place on one of the lower rungs of the Pointlessly Dumb Holidays ladder. This year, however, finds me a little more willing to participate in the festivities, mostly because I won’t be around when the hordes of neighborhood trick-or-treaters bum-rush my front door with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. The following six pieces of music were the first that came to mind for a Halloween soundtrack, but naturally, I had to adhere to two rules: no death metal, black metal, doom metal, whatever (too obvious and cliché); and absolutely no film scores – yeah, the title theme from The Exorcist (1973) creeps me out as much as the next guy, but it’s supposed to, for Christ’s sake. Listen at your own risk, as I certainly would not want to be caught locked in the dark with any of these selections below.

Béla Bartók Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta: III. Adagio 1936

There is just something about the music of Béla Bartók that generates an inescapable feeling of unease: the claustrophobic cellos and basses that open his Concerto for Orchestra (1945), the violent unleashing of sound during his third and fourth String Quartets, hell, even his ballet The Miraculous Mandarin (1927) contains moments of menacing aggression. Little wonder why Stanley Kubrick chose the third movement of Bartók’s Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta (1936) to underline key set pieces in The Shining (1980). The six-and-a-half minutes that comprise the Adagio are truly terrifying, a continuous shifting of sound from one state of psychological derangement to another. The timpani glissandi create billows of dizzying fog through which blocks of piano octaves, two restless string sections, and various percussion effects compete for attention, all while the mysterious celesta hovers over the proceedings like a spectre. Close your eyes, turn the lights out, and play at full volume and I guarantee it will have the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.

“Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta: III. Adagio” – Béla Bartók 6:27 (Concerto for Orchestra; Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, Finlandia 2002)

Hans Werner Henze Five Night-Pieces for Violin and Piano 1990

Rarely has a duet for violin and piano ever sounded so ghastly. I’m somewhat of a novice when it comes to the work of German composer Hans Werner Henze, but the handful of little nocturnal demons that embody Five Night-Pieces for Violin and Piano (1990) have always managed to seduce me. They are terror distilled down to two simple musical elements: the moaning, ethereal strings of the violin and the delicate plinks of the piano, executed here in such a skeletal manner that one can almost sense the fingertips of a dead man brushing across the back of the neck. Supposedly Henze penned these short exercises in the dark hours of the morning when he couldn’t sleep, but the notes sound as if they’re falling out of silent air, guided to the page by the hand of a zombie. Imagine this as the soundtrack to a night alone in a long-abandoned and decrepit mental hospital and the spine-chilling factor will increase tenfold.

“Five Night-Pieces for Violin and Piano: I. Elegie” – Hans Werner Henze 3:05 (Violin Concertos Nos. 1 & 3, Five Night Pieces, Naxos 2006)

Györgi Ligeti Lontano 1967

Ligeti’s Lontano (1967) is, hands down, the most frightening piece of music I’ve ever heard; nothing else comes remotely close to equaling the chilling sensation I get from playing it at full volume. Though it could be loosely classified as a tone poem of sorts, Ligeti seemed to have the subconscious adolescent imagination on his mind while he was composing it, intending the orchestra to portray “a window on long-submerged dream worlds of childhood.” I shudder to think what kind of nocturnal hallucinations Ligeti experienced as a child. Lontano is ten minutes of pure, menacing psychological terror, the kind that leaves a scar so rooted that the memory is haunted until death. The orchestra swells and ebbs as long, agonizing drones overlap one another, accelerating and retarding detectable beat frequencies, culminating in a hypnotic effect that is sinister as it is serene. There is no hair-raising climax here, no deafening bolts of percussion to send shock waves throughout the body, no tidy conclusion to walk away from. Lontano places the listener into a cold, alien hell which offers little in the way of sanity or escape. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“Lontano” – Györgi Ligeti 10:09 (The Ligeti Project II, Teldec 2002)

Arvo Pärt Fratres for Strings and Percussion 1991

There is a threshold at which terror gains an aura of luminous beauty, which is where Estonian composer Arvo Pärt’s Fratres for Strings and Percussion (1991) resides. I find most of Pärt’s work to be a tad bit New-Agey for my tastes, but the eerie simplicity of this piece manages to devastate me with each successive listen. There are no cheap shock tactics here or cartoonish effects to get the blood racing, just nine minutes of glorious, mesmerizing drone with a somber figure for strings floating above, peppered by occasional dashes of percussion. The exotic, almost Middle-Eastern flavor of the piece conjures ancient ritual sacrifices, prayers for the dead, hymns to civilizations long decayed. The sonic weight gradually increases with the volume until the listener is eventually smothered into submission, buried into the same catacombs to which the music is perpetually confined. Perhaps not as attention-grabbing as some of the other selections, the black magic of Fratres is a spell that becomes more enchanting with time.

“Fratres for Strings and Percussion” – Arvo Pärt 8:54 (Fratres, Naxos 1997)

Krzysztof Penderecki The Passion According to St. Luke 1966

Without the Biblical context, the listener could hardly be faulted in assuming Krzysztof Penderecki’s musical interpretation of the Passion was some kind of pagan ceremony narrated by the choir of the damned. Though scored for various soloists, three mixed choruses, and large orchestra, it’s the a capella sections like In pulverem mortis (”Into the dust of death”) that send shivers down my spine the most. Clusters of atonality expand and contract like last dying breaths while the basses echo a dissonant, gutteral drone, solo voices rise and fall maniacally, and the sopranos shriek as if suddenly possessed. Evil has many disguises, friends, which is why I’ve always found it especially sadistic how intensely it thrives underneath the sacred text presented here.

“St. Luke Passion: In pulverem mortis” – Krzysztof Penderecki 6:35 (St. Luke Passion, Naxos 2004)

Toru Takemitsu A Flock Descends into the Pentagonal Garden 1977

Admittedly the selection that’s arguably more fantastical than frightening, Toru Takemitsu’s A Flock Descends into the Pentagonal Garden (1977) is also the one that sounds the most like Debussy on a crack cocaine binge. Lose yourself in its whimsical allure and you’ll enter an Alice in Wonderland-like world of strange creatures and radiant, almost nauseating colors, all wrapped in a distorted and unpredictable reality. What I enjoy most about this piece are the teasing moments of comfort that become a kind of playful torture on the composer’s part: as soon as you let your guard down and treat the music as aural wallpaper, Takemitsu conjures an event that seems more extravagant than could have ever been anticipated. Think of A Flock Descends as the musical equivalent of, say, Guillermo del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) and the danger of its vivid imagination becomes more apparent.

“A Flock Descends into the Pentagonal Garden” – Toru Takemitsu 13:00 (A Flock Descends into the Pentagonal Garden; Spirit Garden; Dreamtime, Naxos 2006)