Creating Horror

lighting, in addition to setting the stage with mood-appropriate music. However it’s accomplished, make sure that none of the players become too uncomfortable as a result. The idea is to draw them in, not to compete with your own devices for their attention.

Every DM expects to describe people, places, and things over the course of a D&D session, but that narrative is much more important in a horror-based encounter. Description and detail play a vital part in generating horror in any roleplaying game. But how much description is too much? Which details are appropriate, and which ones excessive or (worse yet) ineffective? Running a successful horror encounter can require the use of techniques and methods specifi c to the genre. A truly horrifi c situation or scenario provokes a visceral reaction in the reader or viewer (or, in this case, the player). Fear is one of the strongest human emotions; to inspire even a little of the real thing in a session is the hallmark of excellent roleplaying. The effectiveness of a given horror scenario can come down to one simple concept: the pace of revelation. True terror does not result from plodding revelations of one scene or event after another. While the individual elements of those scenes might be horrifi c, a by-the-numbers approach numbs the characters, leaving the players bored rather than horrifi ed. One of the key characteristics of terror is that it builds over time. Let the characters, and thus their players, slowly discover what they’re in for. Perhaps their fi rst hint of trouble is an unexplained bloodstain on the fl oor of their room, a darkened doorway into the side of a mountain where none stood yesterday, a corpse they discover with features identical to one of the characters—anything to draw their attention and set them on edge but leave them with little hard information. As the encounter progresses, the PCs discover that they or their loved ones are in danger; that they are racing the clock on a curse that will condemn their souls to the Abyss; that the city is being stalked by a creature no person and no magic has been able to see. Strange events occur around the PCs, from odd sounds to milk curdling to sudden attacks by domestic animals. Perhaps the characters experience horrific nightmares, in which they assault, torture, and murder their loved ones (or each other). Perhaps the encounter begins with the demise of a friend or relative of one of the PCs, in a way that mirrors the dreams of one of the other characters. Each scene, as it progresses, leads to greater danger, greater mystery, greater fear. Of course, it might seem that most adventures follow this formula, and they do, to an extent—but in a standard encounter, this slow build-up to a finale is malleable. It can be interrupted for a quick aside or perhaps a more lighthearted incident. While a horror game need not be unrelentingly grim—you’ll likely have noted that a great deal of horror has elements of humor in it (“comic relief”)—the DM must guard against losing the momentum the story has built to that point. The most effective scary stories are the ones in which terror is inexorable in its approach. It’s gruesome, and perhaps even a bit disturbing, to describe the dismembered bodies of a family scattered across the fl oor when the PCs investigate a house. Consider instead the benefits of a step-by-step revelation. Initially, the PCs see only an empty living room, barely lit by their torches. They hear only the squeak of hinges and the creak of fl oorboards. The room appears empty, but successful Spot and Search checks reveal scrapes on the fl oor and impressions in the dust that suggest the furniture was pushed around recently, then moved roughly back into place. A faint scent, vaguely fruity, hangs in the air, noticeable only as the PCs move away from the front door. The cupboards are fully stocked. Dishes stand stacked beside the stove, in which the fi re has gone cold and a bit of beef lies seared to charcoal. As the PCs approach the stairs, the most keen-eared among them (those who make Listen checks) detect the faintest sound of dripping water. The stairs creak as the characters climb them, making stealth diffi cult. Near the top of the stairs, something black scuttles out of the shadows and races across the fl oor! No, it’s just a rat . . . a rat with something in its mouth, something that smears a wet trail across the wooden slats of the secondstory fl oor. A strange, fl ickering light, like that of guttering candles, leaks out into the hall from a door only slightly ajar. The fruitlike scent is stronger here, but it’s almost lost amid a much stronger miasma, something coppery and acrid and too familiar to anyone who has ever been in battle. If the PCs carefully push the door open, they fi nd that unlike the one downstairs it doesn’t make any sound at all. Examination shows the hinges have been greased with some sort of rendered fat. Inside the room, on every horizontal surface, jack-o’-lanterns glow, lit from within by long-burning candles. In every carved eye socket sits a human eyeball. Every carved mouth displays a macabre grin formed of human teeth. And there, lying on the fl oor . . . Well, you get the idea. Not every discovery or every scene needs to include a slow, methodical buildup like that, but it can only add to the impact for particularly potent images of horror. Such a buildup can also work to maintain tension, as opposed to creating it. If the PCs entered the house described above but the DM skipped or downplayed all the details between their opening the front door and entering the bedroom, the player characters’ tension level would have dropped, and the impact of the fi nal scene would be lessened. Nobody can stay on edge all the time, so be sure to allow some measure of relief and release (“Oh, thank the gods, it was just a rat!”). Don’t break the mood, but don’t hammer relentlessly either. When building the tension, let it drain just a bit now and again, just enough to set the PCs up for the next increase. Finally, consider the occasional false ending. The PCs have captured the killer, slain the monster, broken the curse. They’re fi nally starting to feel a sense of relief after a long, tough series of encounters. Then, hit them with something hard. The killer wasn’t working alone, or wasn’t the mastermind behind the evil deeds. The monster isn’t truly dead (if it’s good enough for almost every horror movie ever made . . .). The curse might be broken, but its source remains. The PCs are never more vulnerable, emotionally as well as physically, as when they’ve fi nally allowed themselves to relax. Don’t do this often, though. The PCs should be permitted to enjoy the fruits of their