When it comes to trans representation in film, the horror genre has rarely been a proponent of dynamic or nuanced trans characters. From Psycho’s Norman Bates to Sleepaway Camp’s Angela Baker to Silence of the Lambs’ Buffalo Bill, horror’s trans (or trans-coded) characters are often depicted as the monsters to fear.

In her 1980 book Powers of Horror, Julia Kristeva defines abjection through the context of the monstrous identity within horror. Abjection is the process of doing or being something that rejects social norms. To be an abject is to be not quite a subject, not quite an object — and by not fitting into easily identifiable boxes or labels, the abject becomes something worthy of confusion or disgust by those who do.

“It is thus not the lack of cleanliness or health that causes abjection but what disturbs identity, system, and order,” Kristeva writes. “What does not respect borders, positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite."

Abjection is a disturbance of normalcy, or at least the structures that have been deemed as the status quo by those in power.

By that definition, trans people are inherently abject. Whether it be through hormones, surgery, or presentation — the trans body is a disturbance of the “normative” cisgender body. Trans people are systemically othered because of that abjection. They do not fit into the confines of what is deemed acceptable — and in some cases, outright refuse to — which erodes at the social orders put in place by those in power.

This is why monstrous and villainous depictions of trans people are so rampant in media objects, especially in horror. It is easy to be afraid of something one does not understand, something that defies the longstanding pillars of society, of gender, of what is human and what is not. Instead of depicting trans people as characters with complexities, they are simply seen as monsters, deviants of the pristine social order.

This isn’t to say that trans characters cannot be villainous, or that all villainous trans characters are inherently harmful. The problem with many of these depictions is that they lack nuance. They are murderers, serial killers, or monsters with reductive motivations and vague-at-best characterizations other than the fact that they are trans. There are parodies of what trans existence looks like from the outside without any real depth or insight.

But trans representation in horror is slowly changing, giving filmmakers room to explore the many ways trans identity can fit into the genre.

Brad Michael Elmore’s debut feature Bit follows a teenage trans girl named Laurel who, after moving to Los Angeles to live with her brother, is recruited to join a feminist vampire girl gang.

During her invitation, Duke, the leader of the self-proclaimed “Bite Club,” lays out the most important rule: never turn a boy into a vampire. The reason being that men have had too much power in their lifetimes and it’s always mismanaged. Duke sees herself as a supervillain — she even likens the group to something of a terrorist organization — but it’s because she is okay with being a monster if that means taking another monster down. Why wouldn’t you suck the life out of the rapists and the trolls if you had the chance?

“The world’s a meat grinder, especially if you’re a woman,” Duke says. “We’re politically, socially, and mythologically fucked. Our rules are secondary, our bodies are suspect, alien, other. We’re made to be monsters, so let’s be monsters. Let’s be gods.”

Duke makes a compelling case for being a monster through a patriarchal context — to right the wrongs of injustice and to take women’s power back. This is especially pertinent through a trans interpretation of abjection. There’s validity to being a monster if it is by your own volition, to use the parts of you that will already be seen as other and alien and repulsive as a way to establish your own power.

In her 1993 book The Monstrous-Feminine feminist film scholar Barbara Creed examines abjection through the lens of the vampire. “The female vampire is monstrous — and attractive — precisely because she does threaten to undermine the formal and highly symbolic relations of men and women essential to the continuation of patriarchal society.”

Laurel feels much more conflicted about being a monster than the rest of the crew, even under the pretense of challenging outdated and harmful power dynamics, but finds herself identifying with the crusade.

With Bit, Elmore does not define Laurel solely through her transness — nor does he depict her as an outright villain. Instead, Laurel is a complicated character who goes through the motions of both her adolescence and her newfangled monstrous identity.

Horror films, especially those with supernatural elements, are a fascinating foundation for trans stories. Adjusting to a new body, a new life, a part of oneself one does not yet understand, are compelling narratives that ring true through both trans and supernatural contexts.

In Marion Renard’s short film Switch, a young teenager’s first sexual encounter goes wrong when their body switches from one sex to another. This sudden transformation causes the girl they were hooking up with to run away, confused and frightened by this abject being she cannot comprehend.

But this repulsion also exists in Switch’s protagonist. They hide in their bathroom and look at themselves in the mirror with the same disgust: they see a monster. In an effort to lift this curse, they even try to tear off the penis that was not there mere moments ago.

Throughout the film, the protagonist continues to switch bodies — spliced between nightmares of eating flesh and becoming something nonhuman — but it isn’t a story that implies the trans body is something of a monstrosity or something to fear.

Instead, the thesis lies in the protagonist understanding their new body as a superpower rather than a hindrance: something they can understand, accept, and eventually control. And, eventually, the powers of the supernatural become a gateway to gender euphoria. The film also introduces solidarity in the idea that, even though who they are feels foreign, there are other people with the same curious affliction.

If there is a new era of trans horror films on the horizon, it’s imperative that our stories are as dynamic, complicated, and contradictory as we are. Trans characters should not be depicted as a tired monolith, nor should they be squeaky clean and pure of heart with no real bite. Abjection, othering, and the defiance of the social order are proof that trans characters rightly fit in with the complexities of horror, they just deserve to be done well.