If you missed the first part, find it here.
Before diving into what makes a good terror story at your table, let’s look at a few common elements that both terror and horror use. As discussed previously, fear is central to these stories, but so is hope it’s always just out of reach of the characters, but is always there. Failing to include that hope is tantamount to creating and exercising cruelty. That single, solitary spark is what keeps the characters (and the plot) moving forward.
From the character’s perspective, terror is everywhere, overwhelming, and chaotic. That includes the unfathomable elements for why this is happening. All of this combined is terrifying. The threat comes on suddenly and builds in power while the characters try to make sense of what is really going on.
The external force, on the other hand knows why it is doing whatever it is committing. It might not be aware of the reasons motivating it however. It can even be an obscure biological process, but no matter how alien, it has a purpose. What deepens the fear and dread is the inability for the characters to get to the root cause. What they find is too bizarre to fully decipher.
Following the standard formula for terror stories, the first few attacks happen to people unaffiliated with the characters. The attacks are usually weak, but odd. The next stage comes after disturbing evidence is found. This is when a friend of a friend of a friend is the victim. The crime is shocking, but it doesn’t elicit fear, just the shivers. The forcefulness also increases.
Having the malevolent force close in on the characters makes the villain to feel everywhere. The first few attacks establish the random pattern and prevents the characters from feeling this is personal —even if it is. And that just magnifies the scope of the terror as it feels indiscriminate. In films, this is when the protagonist first learns what the audience already knows.
From this point on, the attacks are closer because the protagonist attempts to learn what the threat is and how to stop it. This is one of the few points of control the protagonist has in the stories direction: he can ignore what’s happening and what others suffer, or he can intervene and those closest to him suffer. How do you choose the world over family? Fear that they could be next.
Rather than being the hunted, the characters are the hunters. This requires the malevolent force to react to the characters. Growing power brought to bear on the protagonists does double duty here. It not only gives a metaphorical sense of proximity, but also the overwhelming force it can bring to bear. Using these elements to close in on the protagonists gives the impression that they are being singled out and hemmed in.
Terror also requires the universe to be indifferent. The less the cosmos appears concerned with the characters, the more isolated they will feel. The message here is no one is coming to save you. This is why many terror plots are connected to rural settings. The isolation is palpable. “Sorry, kid, you’re on your own” reverberates across the landscape. The more you leverage this, the more terrifying your adventure will be.
Shift the setting to a city and you can amp up the cruelty factor. Now the characters have more allies for their cause, right? Nope. If anything, an urban setting just amplifies the isolation. Not only do the characters have to face the malevolent force alone, now they have to do it with the display of humanities base qualities.
Every vice is brought to bear against the character’s agency. Still want to save the world in the face of willful ignorance? Do you really love your friends and family that much? Answering in anything but the affirmative makes the protagonist just as monstrous as the malevolent force and worse yet, their own kind. And now the terrible choice is truly awful.
So, the external threat is made more monstrous in that it’s attacking the very soul and character of the protagonist. Choosing not to fight makes them just as callous and humane as the rest of the world. This should be a frightening concept writ large enough the setting and story display it without it needing to be said. Thus, you can do this by describing the way the world looks and showing it through the nonplayer characters’ actions (“show, don’t tell,” as writers’ references say). It also shows the setting—no matter how cruel—isn’t the enemy, it just won’t help you.
How do you provide a sense of hope in such a bleak world? The characters’ agency. Protagonists have the power and wherewithal to overcome the source of terror, they just don’t know how to—yet. And that’s the thing you want to maintain for as long as possible. It’s the climax of the story. This is where elements of the mystery genre will serve you well. Characters find clues over time that help them figure out how to defeat the monster, ofttimes at the cost of someone else’s life.
Each new encounter with the malevolent forces a crisis, but it’s the dangerous opportunity to try out a new strategy that feels plausible. The characters should suffer as a result, but ultimately come out ahead for all their efforts. Even if there’s a setback to their efforts, they should gain some future advantage.
Part of the scope of terror stories is how much the world appears to thwart the character’s efforts. When they get close to the truth, something should happen to prevent a full understanding of the way to stop the malevolent force leaving them with just a little bit more information. This lets the players and characters know the story is on the right path to conquer the challenge. The closer they get, the more they’ve learned and the harder it is to get the last pieces. This only helps to magnify the sense of power the villain has.
Finally, while terror sources can be defeated, they always leave something behind the keeps the fear in the back of the mind for a brief period of time. The physical damage hills quickly, but the spiritual and psychic trauma can last for years. Feel free to use coincidental echoes of the encounters in future sessions just to keep the fear alive. The evil men do lives on long after they’re gone and this is a good way to let the players see the trauma reflected in the eyes of the survivors.