What Does Horror Smell Like?

I like getting scared. Maybe it stems from the same reason I play sad songs on repeat for days and cook with far too much spice: there’s something about a sting that I’ve come to enjoy.

This is also how I prefer my horror movies: steadily unsettling viewings that creep up on you, as opposed to constant gotcha-moment jump scares. My favourites include Rosemary’s Baby and Suspiria (the original)—wherein a sense of wrongness builds with masterful pacing. Though terrifying, these movies are aesthetically alluring: vibrant, fever-dream-like universes I find myself drawn to—especially around Halloween. So when I was offered the chance to try a horror-inspired scent, I couldn’t say no.

The fragrance, called Endless Night, is based on a newly released Eli Roth film, Dream Eater. It follows a filmmaker who documents her boyfriend’s disturbing parasomnia at a remote cabin in the woods. The perfume, in turn, is meant to bottle up the film’s chilling intensity and fear—promising (threatening?) to embody “what nightmares smell like.”

It’s the work of an AI-backed fragrance house, Generation by Osmo. Osmo uses Olfactory Intelligence (OI), which is a type of AI trained specifically for scent. According to Osmo founder and CEO Alex Wiltschko, OI handles repetitive tasks and optimizes techniques, ensuring no formulas are repeated. Like many artificial intelligence projects, there has been skepticism about the technology’s replacement of human labour. However, Witschko maintains that “it doesn’t replace intuition or artistry,” though it purports to be able to translate even the most esoteric description—like a memory or a photo—into a novel scent.

Days before Halloween, a small, unassuming vial arrived at my door in a silver package. Inside, there was a card describing the Endless Night fragrance. Notes include “frigid ozone,” “metallic flashes like a knife’s edge,” “damp soil from a snowbound cabin,” yeast and industrial, earthy tones.

As I spritzed it onto my wrists and neck before a morning of work meetings, I was hit with something pungent. Perhaps the yeast? I tried to pay it no mind, but on my walk through downtown Toronto, the world around me felt somewhat harsher. The chill coming off the concrete buildings was sharp and unforgiving, pushing the metallic aroma deeper into my nostrils.

The usual boost of confidence I get from my finishing-touch perfume was replaced by a tinge of discomfort. With each step, I found myself longing for my current favourite scent—Aesop’s warming, spicy cardamom eau de parfum—but knew this was the price of committing to the bit.

Though it’s novel with AI technology, this is not the first instance a scent has coincided with horror. Last winter, Nosferatu released a perfume that purported to smell like “an encounter with an apparition in the cold” and “the damp caves of Count Orlok’s castle.”

“Gross” scents—ones that smell of rot and gasoline—have been on the rise for years. And on TikTok, there’s a growing fanbase surrounding freaky formulas, with reviews of “sinister scents” and perfumes for leaning into “evil” energy. Indeed, in my experiment, I felt particularly off-putting.

During a meeting at the Ace Hotel lobby café—a most serene, window-filled setting—there was a repellent energy wafting off of me. Every word I spoke felt punctuated by the scent—both antiseptic and bewitching; extremely strange but kinda sexy—to the point where I was, forgive the clihcé, slightly haunted by it.

I caught the streetcar on my way home, and despite it being peak lunchtime rush hour, the car I stepped onto was eerily empty. I sauntered to the back and sat down, a slight headache building. I didn’t feel like myself, but rather a melancholic character.

Once back at my apartment, I immediately showered off the scent. I had initially planned to wear it to a dinner event that evening, but making my morning into a nightmare proved to be spooky enough. The prospect of olfactory terror was certainly alluring, but turns out I like my horror movies best where I can see them.