how to write monsters that actually scare and not sparkle
⊠first rule: donât over-explain. once you give me the monsterâs exact height, weight, claw count, and dental record, itâs not scary anymore. itâs a pokĂ©mon. mystery is the muscle. a shadow that almost looks human will always hit harder than a full description of a swamp beast. leave gaps. let the readerâs brain fill them in with their own worst fear.
⊠physics should not apply. horror monsters are terrifying when they break the rules of the world we think we understand. a body folding in ways it shouldnât. joints bending the wrong direction. silence in a place that should echo. footsteps that sound like theyâre coming from the ceiling instead of the floor. once you warp reality, the reader doesnât feel safe in their own.
⊠chasing is fine. but waiting is worse. scarier than claws, scarier than snarlingâtry a monster that just stands in the corner and watches. even scarier? it smiles. because predators donât smile unless they know something you donât.
⊠let it act like it knows you. a growl is scary, sure, but a whisper of your name in the dark is worse. a hiss of your birthday. a laugh in your motherâs voice. monsters are no longer âotherâ once they feel personal. theyâre invasive. theyâre inside your head.
⊠bonus tip: give them wrong appetites. a monster that eats flesh is clichĂ©. a monster that eats wallpaper? horrifying. one that eats memories, so a character wakes up without knowing their own name? disgusting. one that eats reflections from mirrors so you donât see yourself anymore? revolting.
