I recently came across a question asking how other writers show fear in fiction. I replied to give a handful of ways, but I’d like to take a moment to fully explain them and give each one an example.
Nothing in this post is especially explicit, but some of the linked stories contain horror themes, violence, and potentially triggering material, so be careful when following any hyperlinks!
You can use repetition to build dread. Although writers are often advised to avoid repeating themselves, repetition can be super effective when used deliberately. Consider this passage from a short story featured in my video essay, You Need to Suck More at Writing. For context, a siren has been singing at a tavern each night, driving the town’s men into a frenzy. The tavern owner, James, is deaf and has so far managed to protect his son from her influence. When she returns to sing again, the following scene unfolds:
She was at the door again tonight, knocking. James knew she was knocking at the door by the way the life-preserver wreath twitched with each thunk. He knew it was her by the way his patrons all turned to stare. He knew it was her by the way a grotesque hunger flashed in the eyes of the men. He knew it was her by his son’s uneven steps as he shuffled to the door and slid the bolt shut. He knew it was her by the way Graff slid a knife from his boot.
He knew.
And he would know it was her when the men stepped over his son’s corpse to unbolt the door.
I could state the events more directly, but the repetition gives the dread time to settle. Each recurrence of “He knew it was her” reinforces the siren as the approaching threat and lets me escalate the scene by linking each new development to her presence rather than merely listing what happens.
2. Fearing Loss Over Fearing Death
The same passage from that siren story can also give the reader a more meaningful reason to be afraid. Because James is the central character, readers may assume he is unlikely to die before the story reaches its conclusion, which can weaken the threat to his life. His son, however, is vulnerable. And losing him would be worse to James than dying. By threatening something James values more than his own safety, the scene invites the reader to share his fear rather than relying only on a danger they may not fully expect the story to carry out.
Here is another example from my short story The Words in the Gateway. For context, Thiago is exploring an alternate dimension and making first contact with a pseudo-telepathic inhuman being that calls itself Soo. His time there is running out, but he has accidentally offended it and does not want to return home while it still harbors hostility toward humanity. Soo’s responses are in bold and italics for clarity.
“I don’t have much time left, Soo,” Thiago said.
I know.
Panic. Panic again, settling in faster and more intense than before. Thiago couldn’t think over the wailing of the endless suffering of humanity around him. “I want peace! No, we want—humanity wants peace! How can we have it?”
Can there be peace here?
“I don’t understand!” Thiago shouted, knowing that if he didn’t hit the button on his left wrist soon to initiate a return home, he may never make it back. But… would that be a bad thing? If he could stay and explain himself to Soo, could he stop a miscommunication from destroying their relationship with humanity? “You cannot erase memories on purpose, we don’t know how to do that yet!”
Are memories real?
“No, it’s just recalling what was real - what used to be real!”
Why do you cling to your memories so, if they are not real?
What will you do if I take them?
Thiago’s stomach dropped. “They are real, I understand now. They are important to me and I cannot lose them.”
In this passage, Thiago has stopped caring whether he survives. His deeper fear is that he may have accidentally doomed humanity. Even when the threat becomes personal, he is not afraid for his life. He is afraid of the loss of his most cherished memories. Characters often have something they would rather die than lose. Threatening a deeply important loss can create a stronger fear than just putting the character in mortal danger.
3. Fear Has a Physical Effect
Fear is not only an emotion. It also produces physical and cognitive responses that can be reflected in a character’s behavior! One resource I find especially useful is The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Expression by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi. Its entry on fear is extensive, so rather than reproduce it I’ll highlight a few examples.
Physical Signs:
The face turning ashen, white, or pallid
Body odor and cold sweats
Leg muscles tightening as the body gets ready to run
Gripping something so hard one’s knuckles turn white
Pleading with or talking to oneself
Internal Sensations:
Shakiness in the limbs (causing increased clumsiness)
The sensation of one’s hair lifting on the arms and nape of the neck
Hypersensetivity to touch and sound
Mental Reactions:
The sensation of things moving too quickly to process
Jumping to a course of action without thinking things through
Mistrusting one’s own judgment (when it comes to safety and security)
The book also has long-term responses to fear, signs the emotion is being suppressed, and even has another whole, separate section on Paranoia, Terror, and Dread!
Here’s an example from my short story The Sourceless Fear. For context, the character is climbing a ladder toward the scuttle hatch leading into his attic. Something inside radiates an overwhelming sense of fear that intensifies with every rung. When asked to explain what the experience feels like, he responds like this:
In my memory I step on the stepladder’s first rung, one of six, and a wave of chills flows through me. “Fear.”
I’m on the second rung and my stomach twists into a painful knot. “Nausea.”
Third, and I can’t breathe anymore. “The air gets thinner.”
Fourth rung, my arm is always stretching further for the hatch but never reaching it. “Distance stops making sense.”
Fifth, I finally make contact with the drywall panel and ice flows from my fingertips down through the veins in my arm, speeding towards my heart. “You feel yourself dying.”
Sixth rung, the last one on the ladder. I push. “It pushes back.”
That was as close as I got. I remember swallowing, but the lining of my throat is too dry and it feels like I’m trying to swallow sand. I take an involuntary step down the ladder, and never go back again. “It’s terror,” I tell Sheridan. “Pure terror.”
Sometimes, withholding an answer can make fear more effective. There is a careful balance, however. Some readers may resent a story that withholds too much, while others may be disappointed if the eventual explanation is less frightening than what they imagined.
Here’s another example from the same short story, The Sourceless Fear. For context, a reporter named Sheridan is interviewing the main character about the attic—you remember? The one that radiates fear?—she’s trying to find out what is inside, but the main character doesn’t know because he can never push himself hard enough to go in. Beginning with Sheridan’s response after he describes the attic as containing pure terror, the exchange continues:
“Of what? Is something inside?”
“Hell if I know,” I said. “I can’t get in. No one can. Or, I guess, maybe . . . maybe no one can get out. Maybe it keeps something in.” It sounded ominous in my head, but when I said the words out loud I just felt stupid. Hysterical. “It doesn’t really matter. The bottom line is that we can never know what’s in there because no one can . . . ‘pass the threshold,’ I guess.” An image flashed through my mind, a picture of Liam, of how he looked the last time I saw him alive. I started to get nauseous. “Except Liam. But it’s not like you can ask him what was in there.”
That kickstarts your mind, right? The uncertainty immediately invites the reader to speculate about what might be inside the attic. If Sheridan asked and the main character simply replied, “It’s a bat creature with huge fangs that eats people,” the mystery would collapse into a single concrete answer. And, if you think bats are cute, the story isn’t even scary anymore.
Instead, the passage focuses on a character who feels irrational because he cannot identify the source of the fear. And, worse, may never be able to! The only person who crossed the threshold died before he could explain what he found.
This is far from an exhaustive list. Fear can also be built through pacing, setting, dramatic irony, isolation, sensory detail, character vulnerability, and countless other techniques. For more ideas, I recommend resources like The Emotion Thesaurus, craft books focused on suspense and horror, author interviews, and most importantly, studying the stories that frighten you to see exactly how they create that effect.
And if you want a fun personal way to explore these ideas, watch a horror movie! Something terrifying, late at night, when you’re alone! Keep the Notes app open on your phone and write down or record how you feel when you’re the most scared and tense. Then you can use that as source material to explain how your characters feel!
I hope some of this helps any beginning writers out there. Keep at it! The world needs more human-written content!
