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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
Excellent, Tony. Will share.