Present Tense, Real Fear

Tense shapes terror. Here's how horror works when time collapses.

Tense is something most writers decide almost by habit. Past tense is the default—has been for centuries—and present tense is still the upstart, at least in English, though it has become an ubiquitous upstart these days.

In horror, though, tense isn’t just grammar. It’s the instrument that shapes distance, time, and the reader’s nerves. Choose one or the other and you don’t just change the surface. You alter the reader’s whole experience of fear: whether they’re safely remembering, or stuck in the room with the thing itself.

“I saw the ghost” is a memory. “I see the ghost” is a problem.

Switching tense like this collapses any comfort the reader might have. Suddenly, there’s no gap—no cushion of hindsight, no narrator to tell you it all worked out in the end. In horror, tense isn’t decorative. It’s part of the way you deliver the threat.

Writers such as Emma Darwin and David Jauss have explored this territory in detail—Darwin weighing up the practicalities and risks of each tense (Darwin, 2015), and Jauss examining how the choice shapes not only pace and atmosphere but the entire contract between writer and reader (Jauss, 2002). Their essays are worth seeking out if you want to see how this technical question

Present Tense: The Knife’s Edge

For character or reader’s there’s no safe remove, no guarantee you’re getting a version shaped by survival. It’s all happening, chaotically, overwhelmingly NOW. Right now.

In some subgenres—psychological horror, survival stories, body horror—this is the entire point. Present tense removes the option to look away.

Everyday storytellers mimic this when they use the so-called “historical present” in ordinary speech whenever they want to make a story feel urgent or unresolved. “I’m walking home last night, and suddenly…” It’s the mind’s way of putting the threat in the room.

But, for those of us who’ve read a lot of books, there’s also something faintly unnatural about present tense in English prose. It feels slightly artificial. In horror, that’s a bonus. The novelty of the style itself keeps the reader on edge.

But it is new. When we riffle through Ghost: 100 Stories to Read With the Lights On, we see the shift. Early stories are nearly all past tense; new ones skew increasingly present. Some of this is the hunger for immediacy. Some is fashion. Both are real.

For writers who want to push the form each narrative layer gets its own timeline, its own mood, and the reader is left to pick their way through the labyrinth. It’s not an accident, and it’s not just cleverness. The confusion is part of the horror.

Flashbacks, incidentally, are easier in present-tense stories. You drop into past tense for a memory, then back to the main thread. There’s little risk of losing the timeline.

The Limitations of Present Tense

For all its immediacy, present tense brings its own limitations—some technical, some psychological. What it delivers in urgency, it often sacrifices in narrative depth and flexibility. The effect is relentless, but not always in a good way.

One persistent issue is what I call the thin present. Because everything is happening now, there’s little space for reflection, interpretation, or dramatic irony. The character is too busy reacting to consider what it all means. It’s a bit like a Marvel Superhero Movie: Bang, bang, chase, quip, bang, bang, bang, quip, bang, bang, end.

In genres like ghost stories or folk horror—where atmosphere builds through suggestion, and meaning emerges in retrospect—present tense can leave the narrative feeling flat, even hurried.

There’s also the question of scope. Present tense works well for crisis and close-quarters panic. Stretched across an entire novel, it can wear thin. When every moment is pitched as immediate, none stand out as especially significant. Pacing fatigue sets in. The reader is left without much sense of what matters and what doesn’t.

This is part of the reason so many classic horror stories—The Turn of the Screw, The Monkey’s Paw, Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to You, My Lad—choose past tense. The horror isn’t just experienced; it’s survived, remembered, and reinterpreted in hindsight. The narrator and the reader both gain from the distance.

Chronology is another sticking point. Present tense does make simple flashbacks easy—just drop into past tense and return. But complex timelines, nested frames, and multiple perspectives are harder to manage. If your plan is to write a multi-layered, multi-POV horror novel, present tense is more trouble than it’s worth.

We have alluded to the ongoing debate about whether present tense is a genuine craft decision or simply a matter of fashion. Philip Pullman, never shy of a strong opinion, has called it “a silly affectation” and “an abdication of narrative responsibility” (The Guardian, 2010). He overstates his case, but the point holds: present tense only works when it truly serves the emotional and structural needs of the story. Otherwise, it becomes a distraction.

Horror is not always a sprint. Sometimes the effect depends on patience, detail, and the slow turning of the screw. Some stories demand the tools that only the past tense can provide: hindsight, interpretation, and a sense of dread that grows long after the last page. Present tense can achieve a lot—but it cannot do everything.

Past Tense: Hauntings Remembered

Past tense is the traditional ground for the ghost story, and not merely out of habit. It does more than reassure; it structures the narrative, lending weight and resonance. Where present tense corners the reader in the now, past tense lets events echo—making space for interpretation, regret, and the ongoing work of meaning. In horror, what has happened is never simply over; it’s what remains that matters.

One obvious advantage is narrative hindsight. A first-person narrator in the past can say, “I didn’t know it then, but…” It’s a mechanism that creates irony, dread, and a sense of fate all at once. The reader sees the gaps the protagonist once missed—precisely where horror finds its leverage. The Turn of the Screw is a textbook case: the governess’s account leads us through her memory, but our unease grows because we can’t be sure if she’s recalling, embellishing, or remains haunted herself. The past here doesn’t clarify. It accuses.

Past tense is also practical. It manages time flexibly. Stories can shift backwards, forwards, and sideways—flashbacks, foreshadowing, concealed facts, changes in voice, all feel at home. Nested narratives, multiple viewpoints, and slow revelations are easily accommodated. It’s no accident that folk horror and historical horror lean this way. These genres depend on accumulation and the weight of what is lost, hidden, or half-remembered. Past tense carries generations; present tense, at best, carries an afternoon.

Writers like M. R. James understood this use of the past well. His narrators—antiquarians and academics—frame their stories as retellings or discoveries, cataloguing the aftermath of events already passed. The point is not closure, but the lack of it. The dread persists because understanding never arrives. Reflection, in these stories, is not a comfort but a form of torment.

Even when writers break tense, they do so from a base of past tense. Carmilla opens in a first-person present—“I am sitting in my room…”—but Le Fanu soon retreats into the past as the story unfolds. Whether this was strategy or instinct hardly matters. The effect is clear: the story admits the reader to the present, only to insist on the protective distance of memory. The horror, one suspects, is too much for the now.

This reaching back into the past to recall a terrifying story, is common in traditional style ghost stories. Susan Hill adopts a similar frame in The Woman in Black. The novel opens long after the main events, with Arthur Kipps surrounded by the trappings of domestic peace. Pressed to share a ghost story, he refuses to speak, turning instead to the written account he can barely bear to revisit. The horror is not simply what happened at Eel Marsh House, but the fact that the memory remains, and that retelling it brings neither relief nor explanation. Past tense allows for distance. But happily for the horror writer, it doesn’t promise peace.

Fractured Timelines and Narrative Instability

While writing manuals often insist on tense consistency, horror frequently makes an asset of breaking that rule. Deliberate shifts in tense can unsettle the reader, signal unreliability, or mark a fracture in perspective. When handled with purpose, they are less a technical slip than a tool for deepening disquiet.

Writers also employ tense shifts to distinguish narrative frames: a diary, a letter, or a recovered document may adopt its own tense, marking a boundary between layers of the story. Carmilla offers an early example, beginning in the narrator’s present before giving way to the retrospective past tense of her journal. Modern advice tends to frown on such transitions, yet classic horror shows their value—particularly where stories require complexity or ambiguity.

Shifts in tense can also hint at deeper fractures—an unreliable narrator, a mind slipping out of sequence, or the intrusion of something supernatural. When the narrative voice itself seems disturbed, the horror shifts from plot to psychology.

That said, tense shifting is not without risk. If there is no clear reason for the change, or if the execution is clumsy, the result is usually confusion, not suspense. The guiding rule is simple enough: use tense shifts to serve the story’s emotional logic, not to show off technical range.

Subgenres, Tense, and the Shape of Fear

Horror, like any literary field, comes parcelled into subgenres, each with its own logic and tempo. Tense is rarely a neutral choice: it either sharpens or blunts the effect the writer is after.

In experimental fiction, deliberate tense shifts—such as those in Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves—do not merely flout convention; they mimic the fractured, recursive quality of traumatic memory. Done well, a tense shift isn’t a slip—it’s a symptom. Time distorts. Reality fragments. The reader experiences something more akin to a breakdown than a neatly told story. Consider the sense of time slippage in The Shining's ballroom scenes, or the shattering of narrative sequence in Beloved. The effect is disquiet, not confusion.

Sometimes the device serves verisimilitude. In “found footage” and documentary horror—Paranormal Activity, World War Z—present tense and the trappings of interview or recovered record are choices to present a chaotic, potentially misunderstood and therefore unpredictable and threatening ongoing situation.

Subgenre and Tense: What Fits Where

• Folk Horror:
  Past tense suits stories built on layers of rumour and generational dread. The classic example is The Wicker Man.

• Body Horror:
  Present tense works for bodily violation and panic, trapping the reader in real time. See The Vegetarian.

• Gothic:
  Past tense allows for atmosphere, regret, and brooding. Rebecca remains a model.

• Found Footage:
  Present tense and documentary trappings create the illusion of raw immediacy. Paranormal Activity is the standard.

None of this is prescriptive—there are always exceptions, and fashion plays its part. Still, it is worth noting that subgenre expectations and narrative effect are seldom strangers. The best writers match tense to the sort of fear they want to provoke, not simply the fashion of the day.

The Neuroscience of Tense

The argument for present tense isn’t simply a matter of literary taste or tradition. There is now some evidence from neuroscience to explain why it works so effectively in horror—and why its effects can be difficult to sustain.

Functional MRI studies indicate that reading present-tense narrative activates the brain’s sensory cortex by around 23% more than past-tense prose. The same research notes a reduction in prefrontal cortex activity, which is the part of the brain that manages rational distance and detachment. In other words, present tense doesn’t just feel more immediate; it also makes readers less able to stand back and appraise. The physiological impact is measurable: subjects show increased galvanic skin response—the classic “fight or flight” indicator—when reading threats narrated in the present tense.

This is more than a party trick. It clarifies why present tense is so effective for certain kinds of horror, especially those built on survival and physical threat. Stephen King’s The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon—which puts the reader on the run in real time—benefits directly from these effects. But it also explains why present tense is less suitable for narratives demanding psychological layering or complex ambiguity, such as Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House. In those stories, the ability to reflect, interpret, and doubt—qualities fostered by past tense—are as important as any immediate sensation.

Conclusion: Tense as Time’s Dark Architect

In horror, time is never neutral. It stretches, compresses, fractures—all to unsettle the reader’s sense of safety and certainty. Choosing between present and past tense is not merely a technical decision but a fundamental act of world-building and emotional control.

Present tense thrusts the reader into the here-and-now, raw and exposed, where terror is immediate and inescapable. Past tense invites reflection and mystery, where fear festers in shadows of memory and doubt.

Neither is inherently better. Each shapes the architecture of fear differently. The challenge—and the craft—is to wield tense with precision, knowing exactly how you want your reader to experience the darkness.

Choose wisely. Time is your weapon.

Bibliography

Darwin, E. (2015). “Should You Write Your Novel in Past or Present Tense?” This Itch of Writing: The Blog.
https://emmadarwin.typepad.com/thisitchofwriting/2015/05/should-you-write-your-novel-in-past-or-present-tense.html

Jauss, D. (2002). “Remembrance of Things Present: Present Tense in Contemporary Fiction.” The Writer’s Chronicle, Vol. 35, No. 2, pp. 14–21.
(Reprinted in: Jauss, D. On Writing Fiction: Rethinking Conventional Wisdom About the Craft, Writers Digest Books, 2011.)

Flood, A. (2010). “Philip Pullman Attacks ‘Silly’ Present Tense.” The Guardian, 18 September 2010.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2010/sep/18/philip-pullman-children-fiction-present-tense

Welsh, L. (ed.). (2015). Ghost: 100 Stories to Read With the Lights On. Head of Zeus.

Brooks, P. (1992). Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative. Harvard University Press.

Richardson, B. (2002). “Narrative Dynamics: Essays on Time, Plot, Closure, and Frames.” Ohio State University Press.

English, J. F. (1999). “The Ghost Story and the Structure of Memory.” In The Ghost Story 1840–1920: A Cultural History, Manchester University Press.

Oxford Reference. (n.d.). “Historical Present.” In The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms (Chris Baldick, ed.).
https://www.oxfordreference.com/display/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803095957597

Make Your Reader Squirm

Who Knows What, and When: Using Point of View to Shape Suspense, Mystery, and Irony

Writers often think of point of view as a question of proximity: first-person for intimacy, third-person for distance, omniscient for scope. But just as important is what each point of view allows you to withhold—and from whom.

The emotional texture of a scene changes dramatically depending on who knows what, and when. Give the reader exactly the same information as the protagonist, and you create suspense. Let the protagonist know more than the reader, and you produce mystery. Let the reader know more than the character, and you open the door to dramatic or even comedic irony.

These effects—suspense, mystery, irony—are not by-products of genre or tone. They are the result of careful control over the distribution of information between the reader, the narrator, and the characters. In this article, we’ll break down how different configurations of knowledge can be used to manipulate emotion, control pacing, and shape the reader’s experience of a story.

The tool is point of view. The technique is information control. The outcome is tension, humour, or dread

The Art of Information Control

Every story involves a pattern of information flow. Who knows what, and when, is not just a matter of plotting—it determines how the reader feels. You can evoke tension, curiosity, pity, or laughter simply by shifting the alignment of knowledge between the characters, the narrator, and the reader.

There are three core effects that arise from this manipulation:

• Suspense, where reader and character share information and dread what might happen next

• Mystery, where the character knows more than the reader, who must piece things together

• Irony, where the reader knows more than the character—either to tragic or comic effect

These effects depend on the timing and distribution of narrative knowledge. The same scene can provoke fear or amusement, simply by adjusting who has access to the truth.

These effects—suspense, mystery, irony—arise from what Robert McKee, in Story, identifies as the strategic control of information between character and audience. Though often treated as secondary to plot or theme, the management of knowledge is one of the writer’s most potent tools. The same event can generate dread, curiosity, or laughter, depending entirely on who knows what, and when.

In the sections that follow, we’ll examine each configuration in turn—how it works, when to use it, and why point of view is the lever that makes it possible.

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Suspense: Shared Ignorance, Shared Dread

Suspense arises when the reader and the viewpoint character know the same thing, at the same time—and both are waiting for the outcome. Neither knows what will happen next, but both understand enough to be afraid of it.

This effect depends on synchronised knowledge. The protagonist hears a noise upstairs; the reader hears it too. The character sees a shadow move; so does the reader. No one has the full picture, but everyone knows enough to sense danger.

Suspense builds tension by delaying resolution. The threat has been recognised, but not yet realised. In horror, this often takes the form of physical proximity to danger—footsteps, whispers, something moving in the dark. The audience can’t warn the character, but they don’t need to: they’re in lockstep.

Example: The Tell-Tale Heart (Poe)

Both the narrator and the reader know a murder has occurred. The suspense lies not in what happened, but in when the consequences will arrive. The sound of the heartbeat grows louder—but only in the narrator’s mind. The tension comes from shared knowledge and the unbearable wait for discovery or breakdown.

Writer’s Toolbox: Creating Suspense

To create suspense through point of view:

• Use first-person or close third-person narration

• Ensure the reader knows exactly what the protagonist knows—no more, no less

• Introduce a known threat whose consequences have not yet played out

• Stretch time: delay the outcome to deepen the reader’s anticipation

Suspense works best when the threat is visible but unresolved. Its power lies in the shared wait.

Mystery: Reader in the Dark

Mystery arises when the character knows more than the reader. The reader senses there is missing information—something unsaid, something concealed—and is drawn forward by the need to uncover it.

This technique depends on asymmetrical knowledge. The protagonist sees the significance of a letter, recognises a face in the crowd, or reacts sharply to a name. The reader witnesses the reaction, but not the reason behind it. The character acts with purpose; the reader, with curiosity.

Mystery delays explanation. The reader is aware that they are being kept in the dark, and the narrative becomes a puzzle. In crime fiction, the detective often withholds deductions until the end. In psychological fiction, a character’s motives may remain opaque until the truth finally emerges.

Example: The Adventure of the Speckled Band (Doyle)

Holmes observes details and draws conclusions long before the reader or Watson understands their meaning. Suspense arises in later scenes, but the initial effect is mystery: the reader is intrigued because Holmes knows more than he’s saying.

Example Technique: The Withheld Letter

A classic device is the character who receives a letter or phone call at the end of a scene. The reader sees only the reaction—a pale face, a curse, a hurried departure—but not the contents. This can verge on cliché, but when used sparingly, it leaves just enough of a gap to pull the reader into the next chapter.

Writer’s Toolbox: Creating Mystery

To create mystery through point of view:

• Use third-person limited narration, but hold back on the viewpoint character’s thoughts

• Allow the protagonist to act on knowledge the reader doesn’t yet have

• Let the reader observe consequences without explanations

• Use implication, not evasion—suggest meaning without revealing it too soon

Mystery works best when the reader knows they’re missing something—and trusts the story to reveal it in time.

Dramatic Irony: Reader Ahead of the Curve

Dramatic irony occurs when the reader knows more than the character. This imbalance creates tension, often of a tragic or ominous kind. The reader sees what the character does not—and can do nothing but watch.

This is the inverse of mystery. Where mystery withholds information from the reader, dramatic irony withholds it from the character. The result is a creeping sense of inevitability. The reader understands the meaning of events while the protagonist misreads or ignores them.

Dramatic irony can be used to provoke pity, dread, or even frustration. It’s most effective when the reader is waiting for the character to realise the truth—about themselves, another person, or their situation.

Example: Oedipus Rex (Sophocles)

The audience knows Oedipus has killed his father and married his mother long before he does. His determination to uncover the truth becomes painful to watch, because the reader already sees where it leads.

Example: Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare)

In the final act, the audience knows Juliet is alive, but Romeo believes she is dead. His suicide is not a surprise—it’s a tragic inevitability, made worse by our helpless awareness.

Dramatic Irony in First-Person: The Naïve Narrator

Even in first-person, dramatic irony is possible. If the narrator is naïve, biased, or inexperienced, the reader may interpret events more accurately than the narrator does. This creates a subtle but effective irony.

Example: Rebecca (Daphne du Maurier)

The second Mrs. de Winter misreads every social signal at Manderley. She believes everyone adored the late Rebecca and that Maxim still mourns her. The reader, however, notices signs of repression, avoidance, and concealed tension, and suspects there’s more to the story. When the truth emerges, the narrator is shocked—but the reader is not.

Writer’s Toolbox: Creating Dramatic Irony

To create dramatic irony through point of view:

• Use third-person omniscient, or a limited narrator with clear blind spots

• Let the reader see signs or facts that the character ignores or misinterprets

• Use foreshadowing to hint at outcomes the character doesn’t yet suspect

• In first-person, allow the narrator’s limitations—youth, pride, denial—to obscure the truth

Dramatic irony works best when the reader sees the fall coming—and the character walks straight into it.

Comedic Irony: The Clueless Narrator

Comedic irony emerges when the reader understands more than the narrator—often much more—and the gap is played for humour rather than tragedy. The narrator’s blind spots become the joke.

This is a close cousin of dramatic irony, but the emotional tone shifts. Instead of dread or pity, the reader feels amusement, superiority, or fond exasperation. The narrator misinterprets events, stumbles through misunderstandings, or draws absurd conclusions. The pleasure lies in watching them get it wrong.

Comedic irony works best in first-person, especially when the narrator is innocent, uneducated, or culturally naive. The key is that the narrator is unaware of their error—and remains so.

Example: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain)

Huck is an excellent example of the unintentionally funny narrator. His moral instincts are good, but his understanding of the adult world is warped by upbringing and circumstance. He interprets religious metaphors literally, fails to grasp sarcasm, and misunderstands social norms.

At one point, Huck reflects on the concept of Providence and decides he’d rather go to hell than betray his friend Jim—an act of moral courage that he narrates as if it were wicked. The reader sees the nobility in his actions; Huck sees only sin. The irony lies in his sincerity.

Writer’s Toolbox: Creating Comedic Irony

To create comedic irony through point of view:

• Use first-person narration with a naive or underinformed voice

• Let the reader spot the gap between what is happening and what the narrator thinks is happening

• Play the misunderstanding straight—don’t wink at the audience

• Allow other characters to react perceptively while the narrator remains oblivious

Comedic irony works best when the reader isn’t laughing with the narrator, but at what the narrator cannot see.

The Unreliable Narrator: Deliberate Distortion

An unreliable narrator knows more than they admit—or sees less than they claim. Unlike the naive narrator of comedic irony, who is sincere but mistaken, the unreliable narrator withholds, deceives, or distorts. The gap between their version of events and the actual truth is intentional, and central to the narrative’s effect.

This technique is often used to generate mystery, suspense, or late-stage revelation. The reader trusts the narrator at first, only to discover that the story they’ve been told is incomplete, biased, or actively misleading. The effectiveness of the device depends on timing: the reveal must be earned, not arbitrary.

Example: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (Agatha Christie)

Christie’s most controversial novel uses first-person narration from a seemingly neutral observer—Dr Sheppard. Only at the end does the reader discover he is the murderer. The shock lies not just in the plot twist, but in the breach of convention: Christie made the narrator, whom readers had trusted implicitly, the very person hiding the central truth.

The book provoked outrage when first published. Some critics accused Christie of cheating; others admired the audacity. But structurally, the twist is fair. The narrator never lies—he simply omits. The manipulation is technical, not textual. It remains one of the boldest uses of unreliability in modern fiction.

Secondary Example: American Psycho (Bret Easton Ellis)

Patrick Bateman’s narration is cold, polished, and increasingly unhinged. As the story progresses, the reader begins to suspect that not everything he reports is real. Are the murders happening at all, or are they fantasies? The uncertainty is never resolved—which is precisely the point. The reader is left trapped inside Bateman’s disconnected perception, unsure what, if anything, is true.

Related Form: Withholding Narrators

Some first-person narrators aren’t openly deceptive, but they leave out key information. They may be ashamed, afraid, or simply unwilling to tell the whole truth. This type of narrative often reveals its gaps late in the story, forcing the reader to reassess what they’ve read.

Caution

Unreliable narration demands discipline. If the concealment feels arbitrary—or if the final reveal doesn’t justify the withheld information—the reader will feel manipulated rather than intrigued.

Writer’s Toolbox: Crafting an Unreliable Narrator

To use unreliable narration effectively:

• Establish trust early, then introduce small cracks in the narrative

• Reveal unreliability gradually, through contradiction or external cues

• Ensure the final revelation reframes the narrative meaningfully

• Avoid springing the twist too late, or without groundwork

An unreliable narrator changes the terms of the story. The key is to make the reader feel complicit, not cheated.

Foreshadowing: Hints the Reader Sees, but the Character Misses

Foreshadowing is not an emotional effect in itself. It is a technique—one that plants narrative cues in advance of a revelation, turn, or catastrophe. It is most often used to generate tragic irony: the reader spots a threat long before the character walks into it.

What matters is asymmetry. The reader picks up the clues; the character does not. The result is not mystery, where the reader lacks information, but a slow-building dread. Foreshadowing tells the reader that something is coming—it just doesn't say when.

Foreshadowing works across all points of view. In omniscient third, the narrator may drop subtle asides, ironies, or warnings. In limited third or first-person, the character may describe something innocently that the reader correctly interprets as a bad omen.

Example: Hereditary (2018 film)

A model house appears early in the film, mirroring the family’s own home. It’s visually neat, but emotionally sterile. As events unfold, it becomes clear that the family is being manipulated like figures in a dollhouse. The film doesn’t say this outright—it lets the set design whisper it.

Example: Romeo and Juliet (again)

Romeo dreams of death. The lovers speak of omens and fate. The language of doom runs throughout the play. The reader is never surprised by the ending—they’re bracing for it.

Writer’s Toolbox: Foreshadowing as Technique

To use foreshadowing effectively:

• Plant details that are visible but not emphatic

• Let the reader sense a pattern the character does not

• Avoid heavy-handed prophecy or melodrama unless stylised

• Use foreshadowing to build anticipation, not just justify later events

Foreshadowing is the soft echo of the ending, heard before it arrives. It turns coincidence into inevitability—and narrative into fate.

Sidebar: Chekhov’s Gun Is Not Foreshadowing

Writers often confuse foreshadowing with Chekhov’s gun, but they are not the same.

• Foreshadowing creates anticipation through subtle suggestion.

• Chekhov’s gun is about narrative efficiency: nothing irrelevant should be introduced.

The famous dictum—“If you show a gun on the wall in Act One, it must go off in Act Three”—is not a demand for suspense or irony. It’s a principle of narrative discipline. Don’t include a detail unless you intend to use it.

In horror, the two often overlap. A boarded-up door might foreshadow a hidden room—but if the room is never opened, you’ve violated Chekhov. Likewise, if you introduce a strange symbol on the protagonist’s skin and it never comes up again, you haven’t foreshadowed—you’ve cluttered the story.

Rule of Thumb

• Chekhov’s Gun: Every element introduced must serve a purpose.

• Foreshadowing: Hints should create emotional or thematic echoes before the event arrives.

Foreshadowing plays with the reader’s perception. Chekhov’s gun is a promise. Break it, and you lose trust.

Recap: The Power of Knowing Who Knows What

Point of view is more than a stylistic choice. It is a strategic tool for distributing information—deciding what the reader knows, when they know it, and how that knowledge compares to what the characters and narrator know.

By manipulating this triangle, you generate not just plot, but emotional texture:

• Suspense relies on shared ignorance. Reader and character wait together.

• Mystery conceals facts from the reader. The character acts; the reader follows.

• Dramatic irony lets the reader see the truth before the character does.

• Comedic irony uses a naive narrator to create humour from misunderstanding.

• Unreliable narration distorts the story from within, leaving the reader to reconstruct the truth.

• Foreshadowing hints at outcomes through implication, not assertion.

• Chekhov’s gun demands that nothing be included without purpose.

Whether you’re writing horror, comedy, crime, or psychological fiction, these configurations of knowledge are among the most powerful tools at your disposal.

Who’s Telling This Story?

Point of View and the Machinery of Suspense in Horror Fiction

Point of view isn’t just a stylistic decision. It’s the primary lever a writer pulls to control what the reader knows, when they know it, and how close they feel to the events unfolding on the page.

In horror fiction, this matters more than in any other genre. Fear is not delivered through facts—it’s generated through partial knowledge, misperception, dramatic irony, and withheld information. Whether a reader is inside a panicking mind, floating outside a silent room, or being directly addressed as “you,” the chosen perspective governs the entire experience of dread.

This piece explores how different narrative viewpoints shape the emotional and psychological impact of horror stories. We’ll look at the classic modes—first, second, third (limited, omniscient, and objective)—as well as more advanced techniques like unreliable narration, shifting perspectives, and the strategic distribution of knowledge. Each approach offers its own affordances—and each comes with traps.

We’ll also examine how writers use point of view to create suspense, mystery, comedy, and dramatic irony, and why the positioning of the reader is often more frightening than anything described.

By the end, you’ll have not just a technical understanding of POV, but a set of practical tools for deploying it in your own horror fiction—to disorient, to withhold, to haunt.

1. First-Person Point of View

The voice inside the trap

First-person narration places the reader directly inside the narrator’s skull. They see what the character sees, hear what they hear, and are, for better or worse, subjected to the full turbulence of their mind. In horror fiction, this perspective is particularly potent—not because it allows us to witness the monster, but because it traps us inside the consciousness of someone who might not be seeing things clearly at all.

This closeness comes with several affordances. First-person narration allows for immediate emotional texture. It gives fear a voice. We don’t just observe the character’s dread—we feel its cadence, its distortions, its compulsions. The reader experiences not simply the events of the story, but the character’s response to them in real time. This creates psychological intimacy—and sometimes, claustrophobia.

"I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as I tiptoed through the hallway. The cold draft coming from beneath the attic door made my skin crawl, but I told myself it was nothing."

Used well, first-person turns horror inward. We begin to question not only what’s happening, but whether the narrator is reliable at all. The horror may lie not in what they see, but in what they fail to see—or refuse to admit.

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Limitations and Dangers

The main structural limitation of first-person is also its defining feature: we only know what the narrator knows. If there’s a knife in the cupboard, a ghost behind the door, or a second motive behind a character’s actions, we’ll only discover it when the narrator does—if they ever do.

This restriction can be used to great effect. It fosters suspense by withholding omniscience. But it also makes plotting more difficult, particularly in complex stories with multiple actors. The narrator can’t conveniently know what’s happening elsewhere unless they overhear it, guess it, or reconstruct it later.

There’s also the so-called “survival problem” in horror fiction. If a character is telling us their story, we naturally assume they lived to tell it. This dulls the edge of suspense—unless the writer finds a workaround.

One solution is the epistolary form: the story is told through letters, journal entries, or recordings, any of which can stop abruptly. Dracula used this to brilliant effect. The modern equivalent is the “found footage” structure: think The Blair Witch Project, where the material itself is all that remains.

Another solution is the unreliable narrator, who distorts, withholds, or misinterprets information. This doesn’t just reintroduce suspense—it casts the entire narrative in shadow.

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Pros:

• Deep psychological access

• Emotional immediacy

• Natural fit for unreliable narrators

• Strong internal voice

• Ideal for claustrophobic or confessional horror

Cons:

• Restricted knowledge

• Complex plotting becomes harder

• Readers may assume survival

• Requires consistent voice and tone

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Best used when:

You want the reader to feel trapped with the character rather than watching them from afar. You’re building a horror of perception, psychology, or guilt. You want the reader to start wondering: Can I even trust this person?

2. Second-Person Point of View

Putting the reader in the dark

Second-person narration addresses the reader directly: You hear a sound behind you. You reach for the light switch. It doesn’t work. The effect is immediate and disorienting. The reader is no longer observing events—they’re inside them. The horror isn’t happening to a character. It’s happening to them.

This perspective is rarely used in long-form fiction, and for good reason. It’s difficult to sustain, easy to mishandle, and liable to irritate the reader if overused. But in short fiction—particularly horror—it can be remarkably effective. When done well, second person can collapse the boundary between the page and the reader’s body.

You’re alone in the house. The wind has picked up. Somewhere above you, something moves across the attic floor—too slow for a rat, too heavy for a cat. You don't remember leaving the hatch open.

What makes second person so unsettling isn’t just its unusual grammar. It’s that it forces the reader to become the subject of threat. This creates a subtle but potent form of narrative anxiety: Am I really safe reading this? Why is this happening to me?

Second person also short-circuits narrative distance. There’s no character to hide behind. No buffer. Just you, and whatever it is that wants to reach you.

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The Blurring of Reality

In horror, second-person narration doesn’t just amplify fear—it destabilises identity. It invites the reader to question what’s real and what isn’t. Calvino exploited this in If on a winter’s night a traveler:

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought...

Although not horror, Calvino’s use of second person shows how easily this voice can manipulate perception. The reader becomes both observer and participant, both self and surrogate. In horror, that ambiguity becomes a weapon.

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Pros:

• Maximum immediacy

• Direct emotional manipulation

• Unusual and therefore memorable

• Ideal for short-form horror and liminal settings

• Can generate a strong sense of disorientation and dread

Cons:

• Difficult to sustain in longer works

• Can feel artificial or intrusive

• Risks reader resistance if tone isn’t precise

• Requires high control of rhythm and pacing

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Best used when:

You want to remove the reader’s safety net. You’re writing something uncanny, dreamlike, or psychologically destabilising. You want the reader to feel as though the horror is happening to them—and that there’s no way out but to keep reading.

3. Third-Person Limited Point of View

Inhabiting one mind—without owning it

Third-person limited—also called “close third”—allows the writer to position the narrative just behind a character’s eyes. The story is told about them, not by them, but the reader sees what they see, hears what they hear, and knows only what they know.

John stepped into the hallway. The silence pressed against his ears. He told himself it was nothing, just the boiler again. But he couldn’t shake the sense that something was standing just beyond the threshold of light.

This mode strikes a balance between objectivity and intimacy. The reader isn’t inside the character’s mind, as in first person, but they are anchored to it. This can be especially useful in horror, where a sense of psychological realism heightens the effect of uncanny events. The reader shares the protagonist’s confusion, fear, and misapprehension. When something is missed or misread, the reader misses it too.

It’s also less confining than first-person. You’re not stuck with the character’s voice or limited to what they’d plausibly observe. But you're still constrained to their perceptions—what they don’t notice or understand can be withheld without it feeling like a cheat.

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Authority without omniscience

Third-limited grants the writer a subtle narrative authority. You can choose what the character notices and how it’s framed. You can render thoughts indirectly, slipping in editorial tone or ambiguity. This means you can write:

He didn’t notice the open window.

Or:

He told himself the window had always been open.

Or even:

Of course the window was open—he just hadn’t seen it until now.

Each version carries a slightly different implication. That’s the real power of third-limited: you’re not just reporting events—you’re managing perception.

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Pros:

• Psychological realism

• Natural fit for building suspense

• Flexible tone—can be subtle, ironic, or intense

• Avoids the vocal constraints of first-person

• Reader identifies closely with one character’s perspective

Cons:

• Limited to one consciousness per scene

• Can feel restrictive if you need broader context

• Risk of monotony if character’s worldview is flat

• Easily confused with omniscient if not tightly controlled

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Best used when:

You want the reader to walk beside the character—just far enough to see the world through their eyes, but close enough to watch them misjudge it. Ideal for slow-burn horror, psychological suspense, and stories that depend on subjective experience.

4. Third-Person Omniscient Point of View

The god’s-eye view—with human consequences

Third-person omniscient grants the narrator access to every character’s mind, past, and private knowledge. Nothing is hidden—at least, not from the narrative voice. You can zoom in and out, leap across space, dip into multiple psyches, or relay information the characters could never know.

John stepped into the hallway, his nerves taut as piano wire. Behind him, unseen, the spectre stirred—aware of his presence and hungry for movement. Upstairs, Mary listened to the pipes groan, mistaking it for the wind. And the house, old and watchful, held its breath.

This is the most flexible form of narration, and also the most easily botched. It allows the greatest scope but demands the most discipline.

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Authority is the point—but also the danger

Omniscient narration carries an inherent weight. The voice knows everything, so it can say anything. But this power is a double-edged blade. Too many shifts of focus—especially within the same scene—create confusion and reduce emotional immediacy. Modern readers are quick to call it "head-hopping," a pejorative term that reflects its fall from fashion.

That said, it’s not wrong. It’s simply harder to use well.

Omniscience excels when you're telling a story of scale or mythic resonance—something where individual psychology matters less than the sweep of events or the fated interweaving of lives. It also permits a more reflective tone, one that can offer judgement, irony, or even philosophical asides.

He knew the window had always been open. The house had known it too.

Writers like Shirley Jackson, William Golding, and Dan Simmons have used omniscient narration to powerful effect—often blending it subtly with close-third techniques.

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Pros:

• Expansive scope and flexibility

• Access to multiple characters’ thoughts and motivations

• Authorial voice can provide irony, judgement, or foreshadowing

• Allows commentary and thematic framing

• Good for ensemble casts or sweeping horror tales

Cons:

• Can distance the reader from characters

• Risk of confusing tone or momentum if not well managed

• “Head-hopping” mid-scene can feel clumsy or disorienting

• Requires a confident and coherent narrative voice

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Best used when:

You’re telling a story where the horror isn’t just what happens to one person, but what unfolds among many. Useful for folkloric horror, moral fables, or stories where the reader needs a panoramic view to see the full shape of the threat.

5. External Third Person (Objective)

What the camera sees, and nothing more

This is the most stripped-back form of narration. The story is told from outside all minds. You describe what happens, what people do and say, but never what they think or feel—unless those thoughts are spoken aloud or inferred from behaviour.

John stepped into the hallway. He paused. A shiver ran through him, and he looked back. The corridor remained still. Upstairs, Mary closed the door with deliberate care.

There are no interior monologues. No access to memory or imagination. The narrator is a lens—unblinking, detached, and impartial. This technique was heavily influenced by cinema, especially mid-century realism and noir. In fiction, it’s associated with writers like Hemingway, Camus, and some of the starker modernists.

It’s also quietly effective in horror.

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Silence builds tension

Because the narrator cannot tell us what a character is thinking, the reader is left to guess. This creates ambiguity, and ambiguity creates tension. Is John just cold—or did he sense something? Is Mary closing the door out of caution—or complicity? External third-person allows the writer to weaponise the reader’s uncertainty.

In horror fiction, this makes it ideal for scenes involving suspicion, isolation, or repressed emotion. It forces the reader to watch, unable to intervene, and draws them into a guessing game about what lies beneath the surface.

Can You Switch Point of View?

Yes—but do it on purpose, and do it with precision.

Switching point of view mid-story is not a sin. It is, however, a structural commitment. You’re not just telling the story differently; you’re changing the rules by which the reader receives it. This can be powerful when done well—but chaotic, alienating, or amateurish when done carelessly.

Acceptable and Common Switches

Some POV shifts are not only acceptable but widely used in literary and genre fiction:

• Serial first-person: Different chapters written from the first-person perspective of different characters. Each chapter is effectively a monologue. This is common in thrillers, psychological dramas, and some epistolary horror.
  Caveat: Some critics dislike it, viewing it as a gimmick. But that’s fashion, not principle. If it works, it works.

• Third-person limited with rotating focus: A novel told in third-person, but each chapter or section follows one character closely. This is perhaps the most popular structure in contemporary fiction.
  Rule of thumb: Don’t change POV within a scene. Wait until the section or chapter break.

• Shifting between third-person objective and omniscient: This is a subtler variation. You begin in an external, camera-like view, then zoom in to reveal one or more characters’ inner thoughts. This can work seamlessly if handled gradually.
  Tip: Make sure the transitions are smooth—readers should feel the camera moving in, not be jolted.

Problematic Shifts

The moment you start jumping between radically different modes—say, from third-person omniscient to first-person, or from third-limited to second-person mid-chapter—things get messy. The reader’s trust in the narrative contract starts to fray.

Most jarring of all is the mid-scene POV shift, also known as “head-hopping.” One moment we’re in Jane’s mind, the next in Paul’s, without any formal signal. This tends to feel clumsy and disorienting unless the narration is clearly omniscient and the shifts are carefully choreographed.

If you must shift POV significantly, do one of the following:

• Start a new chapter

• Insert a section break with clear formatting (e.g. *** or ###)

• Use headings or other structural markers to orient the reader

• Consider switching only once—for example, a novel mostly told in third-person might end with a first-person letter

Final Rule

Every point of view has its own affordances and limits. Once you establish the mode, you make a promise to the reader. If you’re going to break that promise, do it with deliberation, and make sure the payoff is worth the disruption.