The 11 Scariest Prog Rock Songs

Yes, Mike Oldfield’s 49-minute masterpiece – which he made when he was only 19 years old! – is here in part because of its association with “the scariest movie of all time”: The Exorcist. Indeed, it’s virtually impossible not to think of the film during the opening of “Tubular Bells”; however, those first few minutes are beautifully unnerving in their own right, as are multiple moments that follow.

For instance, there’s the forebodingly mystical movement that begins about six minutes in, plus the nightmarish transition from calmness to chaos around the 13:30 mark and the agitated turn around 34:20. By far the most frightening section appears about 12 minutes before “Tubular Bells” ends, when a demonic voice begins growling and howling over lively arrangements.

It’s almost as if Pazuzu entered the recording studio and lent his voice to what would become the signature song of his film further into 1973.

Not to be confused with the hardcore band from North Carolina, New Jersey ensemble Advent describe their sound as “a modern equivalent to the symphonic side of classic English progressive-rock groups like Gentle Giant, (early) Genesis, and Procol Harum, but with a little Tubes-style funk and the occasional jazz-rock flourish.” You can definitely hear some of that on “Canto XXVI (The Evil Counselors),” but you can also hear a lot of Hellish nuances.

Taken from a multidisc compilation featuring artists covering cantos from the “Inferno” part of Dante’s The Divine Comedy, “Canto XXVI (The Evil Counselors)” makes great use of its relatively modest length. It begins unassumingly with acoustic guitars before building tension with eerie keyboard patterns, ominous chants and various other macabre textures. The second half becomes downright terrifying with the addition of fiercer timbres (both instrumentally and vocally), yielding an otherworldly representation of gothic damnation.

Trust us: you don’t want to listen to it with the lights off!

Led by Kavus Torabi, Knifeworld were a top-tier name in modern prog/psych rock. As quirky and colorful as their stuff could be, they occasionally placed darker concepts beneath the surface, and as the title implies, “The Skulls We Buried Have Regrown Their Eyes” is a chief example of that.

Whether it’s meant to be taken literally or metaphorically, the off-kilter score and apocalyptic storytelling are horrifying. Spooky ambiance, keyboard counterpoints and other miscellaneous sounds swell as Torabi embodies the booming desperation of someone who awakens alone and surrounded by rot. As it goes on, he notices the titular skulls “in the back garden” regrowing their eyes, as well as the faces of statues “twisted up into a grimace.”

The mention of “raining” and “chemicals” adds to the song feeling like a retelling of 1985’s The Return of the Living Dead. It’s fun to watch (or hear) but not to imagine actually happening!

Adapted from Gustav Holst’s “Mars: Bringer of War,” the penultimate three-part suite from King Crimson’s sophomore sequence – 1970’s In the Wake of Poseidon – builds peacefully during its initial two minutes.

Even so, there’s an air of impending doom permeating its dramatic Mellotron and marching percussion. Once spiteful horns and disordered syncopation are added near the end of the first part (“Merday Morn”), “The Devil’s Triangle” erupts into a terrifying array of sweltering conflict and evil intentions. It steadily gets louder and more dissonant during midsection “Hand of Sceiron,” with jarring percussion, unruly piano chords and other classical sounds clashing in a suffocating pool of uneasiness.

The piece becomes both more melodic and malevolent during final chapter “Garden of Worm,” with prior themes reappearing beneath the bedlam. As such, “The Devil’s Triangle” is chilling cacophony of that’ll leave you shaken.

Meddle was a bridge between Pink Floyd’s avant-garde early era and the brilliantly focused, influential and timeless run they’d have during most of the 1970s. Opener “One of These Days” clearly leans into the former category. At first, its mix of wind, a thick bass rhythms and psychedelic keyboard punctuations are totally tolerable; yet, it eventually evolves into a monstrous medley of threatening vocals and instrumentation.

Drummer Nick Mason’s famously beastly chant (“One of these days / I’m going to cut you into little pieces”) halfway through is undeniably startling, but the track’s reversed sound effects, raucous guitar work and wavering modulations are plenty alarming before Mason shows up.

That “One of These Days” stands in stark contrast to the otherwise majorly mellow album makes its panic and menace even scarier.

Most people would probably choose “Waking the Witch” as Kate Bush’s scariest song – and for good reason – but we’re going with “Get Out of My House” instead. Why? Well, for one thing, we don’t want to include another track with demonic shouting, and it’s tough to beat the song’s collage of ghostly interruptions, blood-curdling shrieks and general sense of torment and despair.

Interestingly, “Get Out of My House” is inspired by Stephen King’s seminal The Shining, and that’s clear not only in its lyrics (“This house is full of m-m-mistakes / This house is full of m-m-madness”) but also in its use of several voices to represent cursed guests. Their creepy banter and bellows are disturbing enough – and Bush sounds scared to death as she repeatedly screams the title – but the icing on the cake is the tribal and tragic arrangement that complements their turmoil.

Of course, the tune is also a testament to Bush’s avant-pop/prog rock genius.

Although Gentle Giant’s music was usually eccentric, sophisticated and jubilant, they were no strangers to shadowy material (“Wreck,” “So Sincere”). Their darkest tune, however, is surely “Alucard” from their self-titled 1970 debut LP. After all, the title is “Dracula” spelled backward, and it lives up to that namesake with its sinister prog rock /jazz fusion frenzy and spectral proclamations.

The preamble is your typically technical Gentle Giant jamming, but about 75-seconds in, frontman Derek Shulman’s alarming observations (“Living dead; am I breathing? / Sightless, blind, heart stopped beating”) are bolstered by an otherworldly reverse echo effect. Likewise, the rest of the band assist with the sort of spirited ominousness you might expect to back a Hammer horror film or a 1970s Giallo classic.

Like the vampire on whom it's based, “Alucard” is surprising and seductively sinister.

Whether with Porcupine Tree, his solo catalog or another project, Steven Wilson has made at least a handful of horrifying songs (“Index,” “The Creator Has a Mastertape,” “The Birthday Party”). That said, none of them match the overpowering dread of progressive rock/folk nightmare “Drag Ropes” by Storm Corrosion (his underappreciated collaboration with Opeth mastermind Mikael Åkerfeldt).

The slowly advancing yet perpetually brooding instrumentation instantly gets under your skin, with eerie woodwinds, synths, piano, strings and guitars seeming to summon wicked forces in the woods. What truly pushes “Drag Ropes” over the edge, though, are Åkerfeldt and Wilson’s vocals, as the former softly sentences someone to damnation while the latter interjects with a haunting reminder: “I was mortal, but I am your friend.” Their voices intertwine, too, leading to them suddenly aligning for an inhuman interlocking chant (“And the truth can now be told are manifold”).

Honestly, it might be the scariest track either of them has ever recorded. And that's before you've even seen the music video!

Speaking of Åkerfeldt, he’s often cited British troupe Comus as a major influence, to the extent that the title of Opeth’s third LP – which we featured on the aforementioned scary metal concept albums list – was taken from a lyric off of “Drip Drip” (“As I carry you to your grave / My arms, your hearse / You stand before me defenseless”). Even without that connection, the tune’s gloomy nature places it on this list.

Off-putting slide guitar, earthy percussion and Roger Wootton’s rustic wails initiate the group’s ode to necrophilia (yes, that’s really what it’s about). Its medieval flavor becomes increasingly frenzied and ritualistic as Wootton and his bandmates yell with animalistic fervor between Comus’ descriptions of a dead body hanging with “soft white flesh” that’s “slaked with blood.”

Most unnervingly, Wootton promises, “I’ll be gentle / I’ll be gentle,” and in general, listening to “Drip Drip” is like enduring the low-budget griminess of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre or The Last House on the Left. (We mean that as a compliment!)

Okay, so including something from the soundtrack to what’s arguably Dario Argento’s defining work – Suspiria – might be seen as cheating since it’s inherently horror-related. Nonetheless, Goblin are among Italy’s most successful prog rock bands (both creatively and commercially), and we’d be remiss not to give them their due for crafting one of the most unsettling compositions in the subgenre.

Even without the foreboding first scene in your mind, the preliminary blend of celestial bells, ghastly whispers, tribal drumming and irregular guitar strums make “Suspiria” quite spooky. Halfway through, it transforms into a more suspenseful and dour ride (thanks to its quicker tempo and livelier timbres) before returning to its original form.

Almost intangibly, “Suspiria” captures the feeling of knowing that an ancient evil is conspiring behind closed doors to take over the world (and you can’t do a damn thing about it).

As we’ve said before, Van der Graaf Generator were basically the always agitated emo stepbrother of the classic prog rock era, with their bleak songwriting and abrasively experimental prog/jazz rock prompting listeners to bask in their depressing dissonance. Of course, that’s what made them great, and while we know fans might have mixed feelings about our choice here, we think the devastation of “After the Flood” is VDGG’s most terrifying piece.

Unsurprisingly, it’s about nuclear apocalypse (partially inspired by Einstein’s 1950 speech “Peace in the Atomic Era”). Although the first few minutes are fairly accessible and calm, Peter Hammill’s grief-stricken decrees of “the water rush[ing] over all / Cities crash[ing] in the mighty wave” are enough to give you goosebumps.

Before too long, “After the Flood” symbolizes the wreckage with VDGG’s trademark catastrophic noisiness, and Hammill’s final remark (“And when the water falls again / All is dead and nobody lives”) is perhaps the ultimate sign-off for the end of the world.