Time Travel is Usually Horror

I grew up watching the 1970s kids' show Doraemon, where a robot cat from the 22nd century travels back in time to the 1980s to help his caretaker’s great-grandson fix his life (if only someone would do that for me now). The show revolves around the two having adventures in Japan with their friends, as Doraemon uses several of his futuristic gadgets—like the bamboo copter, the anywhere door, or the flying magic carpet—to impress his rural companions. That was all fine and dandy, but as I got older, I started to wonder about the time machine Doraemon brought with him. The only times they’d ever use it were to visit the 22nd century, or go back in time to observe a historical figure, complete their history homework, or erase a mistake made 40 seconds ago that had just ruined their lives.

I couldn’t believe that with technology like that—seemingly in everyone's hands during the 22nd century—chaos didn’t ensue. I mean, you just know there’d be that one guy who goes back in time before humans existed, somehow undoes the entire evolutionary process, and life as we know it ceases to exist. It was a kids' show, so I let it go, obviously. But I started reflecting on all the other time travel anime I’d watched, and how, realistically, all of them would inevitably switch genres halfway through once that concept was introduced, morphing into a kind of existential, realist horror.

Think about it: the general concept of time travel in fiction takes the idea of ownership over time and manifests it as the single catalyst for all character development and thematic motifs. When it's over, the character you see in the first episode no longer resembles the one at the end—even on a molecular level. The overarching power to go against the laws of the universe fundamentally changes you from being a human into something no one else in the entire world can truly understand. Which, if not outright terrifying, is definitely isolating. I wanted to take a look at a couple of anime that explore this phenomenon in their own way and what they have to say about the most malign storytelling concept of all time.

Before diving into anything else, I wanted to talk about the invention of the term "time machine" and how it entered popular culture. H.G. Wells’ 1895 novel The Time Machine took the concept of time travel and gave it a fictional form—a device that could transport someone through time. Beneath its layers of decadent critique and anti-capitalist themes, the story is ultimately about the dehumanization of the main character as he wrestles with the power to alter fate at will. From that, the idea of the time machine became incredibly popular—a fun and easy narrative device that you've probably encountered in countless forms of media. But over time, these stories began to unknowingly harbour a quiet dread—never said out loud, never directly articulated.

One of the first anime I watched that used time travel meaningfully was Puella Magi Madoka Magica (2009), where the character Homura repeatedly loops through timelines in a desperate attempt to save her best friend from dying a horrific death. Each cycle chips away at her humanity. Her sense of identity erodes. Her actions become more extreme. By the end, her love has curdled into something tragic and obsessive. Time travel isn't just a narrative device here—it’s Homura’s survival mechanism. Without it, she too would perish, forced to accept that some fates cannot be changed, no matter how much we wish they could.

Time travel takes on an almost antagonistic role in Madoka once you realize that the more loops Homura endures, the more powerful and excruciating Madoka's death becomes. Their timelines are so tightly linked that one’s suffering amplifies the other’s. What starts as a psychological thriller slowly mutates into a kind of nihilistic horror. Madoka slowly and surely became one of my favourite shows, period– but I had to contemplate every rewatch strictly based on whether I'd care to watch that sort of cyclical cynicism every time.

Higurashi: When They Cry is another time loop narrative that fascinates me because it uses the mechanic not just to solve a murder mystery, but to explore trauma and the cyclical nature of suffering. Each “reset” doesn’t cleanse the characters—it compounds their pain. It was even more terrifying the second time I watched it, when I began to realize how the show had tricked me the first time around. It begins innocently enough, with a cast of characters caught in tragic events, usually ending in murder or suicide every few episodes.

The arcs reset with new storylines, but the fatal outcomes remain. You're left wondering—why is this happening? Why do the same characters keep returning? Once it’s revealed that Rika, a side character, is consciously travelling back in time to somehow prevent these tragedies, the psychological toll becomes palpable. Watching Rika die again and again, struggling for a future no one else remembers, becomes genuinely nauseating. You begin to feel as though you are the time traveller—trapped in a prison you can’t explain, surrounded by people who can never understand.

Time travel takes a comedic turn in Steins;Gate, but it doesn't shy away from the existential weight of its premise. Okabe begins as a goofy, self-proclaimed mad scientist, but each decision he makes—each timeline he alters—strips away that identity. The stakes shift from curiosity to life and death, and by the end, he’s become someone even he no longer recognizes. Though I couldn't relate to Okabe's experience of time loop shenanigans, I remember the fear I felt when I was given a 2nd chance at something I failed before. When he finally reaches the “true ending,” he’s crossed a moral threshold that no time machine can undo. He has to live with it, fully aware that he had nearly infinite chances to get it right—and still failed along the way.

In popular isekai (if you've read my previous article, pop quiz) Re: Zero, protagonist Subaru has the ability to “return by death,” essentially a reset button triggered by his own repeated demise. At first, it sounds like a cheat code to me—but the anime uses it as an emotional weapon. The pain of dying isn’t erased. If anything, it’s more present, especially as he watches his loved ones die or kill him, and then has to go back and pretend nothing happened. Remembering events no one else experienced becomes deeply isolating. And no matter how many second chances he gets, failure leaves a mark. Subaru’s evolution isn’t heroic in my eyes; it’s traumatic.

Lastly, The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya might not seem like it belongs in this dark bunch, but its infamous “Endless Eight” arc is perhaps the most artistic depiction of time loop-induced madness ever aired. It consists of eight episodes, each around 25 minutes, repeating almost the exact same events, sometimes only small details like outfits or dialogue change. The same week plays out 15,532 times. When this arc first aired, I remember the controversy. Fans dropped the show in frustration, unaware of the creator’s intent. But that was the point. You were supposed to feel the agony of reliving one week of summer over and over. One character did feel it, but she remained silent because she wasn’t the narrative lead. And from inside the loop, that’s exactly what eternity feels like: boredom, helplessness, and the existential horror of stasis disguised as carefree summer fun. Unpopular opinion, but I enjoyed this arc the most despite the series' drastic creative diversion.

Almost all these stories begin as light-hearted comedies, dramas, or sci-fi explorations. They play with the idea of alternate timelines, futuristic possibilities, and the fun mechanics of physics. But the reality turns dark fast. Characters begin to realize they hold something akin to mass destruction in their hands—unable to fully master it, unable to run from it either. Time travel forces you to accept that you're nothing but a mere human, just chemicals, molecules, bones, and skin—incapable of fathoming the complexity of nature and the order of the universe. You won't be able to escape the grasp of it when guilt becomes your past, and time becomes your god.

I’m not scared of gore or jump scares nearly as much as I’m afraid of advancing to a point in time where this becomes real. Because time travel offers the illusion of control over something irreversible. But when fiction pushes that fantasy to its logical end, what we find isn’t empowerment. It’s isolation. It’s madness. It’s a loss, which is far more horrifying and real to me.

So yes—give me the flying bamboo copter. Give me the anywhere door. But keep the time machine far away from me. Because once you start tampering with the past, you’re no longer in a kids' show.

You’re in a horror story, you're just unaware of it.