Terror is the bread and butter of every writer of thrillers or suspense fiction. But there are many kinds of terror. Here, as a tip to any budding writers, I point out five basic forms, using examples from my own novel, INTERFACE (Nov. 1, 2022, Keylight Books). In this book, the whole human race has wired itself together with a network of brain implants, a kind of Internet on steroids—you can’t turn it off, can’t escape it, can scarcely think without it. Ironically, Taiki, the inventor of the implants, has turned against his own creation, and has devised a digitally transmissible virus (called a prion) that leads to madness and death. His aim is to scare the bejeezus out of everyone, and force them to ditch their implants ASAP.
FULL FRONTAL TERROR
Mayhem or murder is in full swing. The only question is one of survival.
In Chapter 1, The Shallows, Taiki has transmitted his digital virus to a hulking brute, whom he nicknames “The Moose.” Like a good scientist, Taiki follows him into a packed nightclub to see what will happen. The Moose snaps, as expected. He pulls out a Bowie knife and uses it to butcher the helpless crowd. Ultimately he sets the club on fire and incinerates those who have escaped his blade. Blood, smoke, and screams—even Taiki is terrified by the carnage he sees.
Physiology: This is the most elemental form of terror. One is forced to confront the object of fear face to face. When neither flight or flight are feasible, the body shifts to a freeze response—breath stops, the heart beats like crazy, and it becomes impossible to move a muscle. Opossums make the most of this strategy. In a hopeless situation, sometimes the best thing you can do is to play dead, or to at least avoid attracting the attention of the threat. But it also makes you a sitting duck.
Writing tips: Making this work in prose demands that one evoke all of the reader’s senses, putting him in the victim’s place. Action is everything. Deliberations, reflections, brainwork only get in the way, and should be cut without sparing.
TERROR OF ANTICIPATION
The threat is close, even closing in, but has not yet caught its victim. The worst is still to happen.
In Chapter 24, Search and Destroy, Taiki’s children, 14-year-old Phrena and her 12-year-old half-brother Max, are being pursued by Boris, a henchman of the KGB-like Federal Anti-Terrorist Authority (FATA), who, like The Moose, has been driven mad by Taiki’s digital virus. The kids have taken refuge in a dark wine cellar. In the distance, they hear sporadic gunfire, as Boris systematically kills everyone in the house. Then—silence. A door opens, letting a shaft of light into the cellar. A slow clomp of heavy boots. The sickening smell of a man’s sweat. And Boris’ robotic voice, like a broken record, “Search and destroy. Search and destroy.”
Physiology: Here, one’s body prepares to face the threat. There is a massive release of adrenalin and cortisol. Both breathing and heart rate rise. Muscles swell with blood, and mobilize energy stores in case sudden action is needed. There may be tunnel vision, or the auditory equivalent of focused hearing. In some cases, the bladder discharges its ballast. Legs and arms are under tension, like coiled springs. Everything is rigged for fighting or escape.
Writing tips: Here the smart writer internalizes the action. Stream of thought is an ideal device, as the target’s brain races through every possible action—chaotically, frantically. The objective threat itself can be painted with a few telling strokes, especially if the reader has been prepared by judicious foreshadowing. In the cellar scene, for example, Boris’ crazed actions don’t need to be shown in detail. That picture is already clear from The Moose’s rampage in Chapter 1.
HELPLESS TERROR
The victim is trapped, without hope of escape, writhing like an insect stuck on a pin.
In Chapter 20, The Smothering Mollusk, Taiki’s wife, Imogen, is being interrogated by Egon, the much-feared, Beria-like boss of FATA. She is immobilized. Her face is covered by a mask that cuts off all sight and sound, but allows Egon to grill her directly through her brain implant. She struggles to resist, but is powerless. Even her own thoughts have been taken from her. It is a torture that will drain her last ounce of strength, and ultimately kill her.
Physiology: Again, the pulse races, and breathing comes in rapid gasps. Instead of freezing, muscles contract frantically, groping in vain for a way out. The victim’s thoughts run wild, almost like an epileptic seizure. In the end, the heart cannot keep up its ever-accelerating pace and succumbs to a fatal arrhythmia.
Writing tips: Imogen’s state here is a passive one (well, not quite, because she does find a way to go on the counterattack). So I frame the incident from Egon’s point of view, letting his cynical manipulations give the reader a glimpse of the torment that Imogen is going through, as well as the courage with which she prevails against it. In general, a little distancing keeps the victim’s plight from seeming monotonous and overbearing.
MASS TERROR
The threat is formless and all-pervasive. Anyone can be a victim.
In Chapter 28, Charm City, Taiki has unleashed his virus on the Inner Harbor district of Baltimore, infecting hundreds of tourists and hospitality workers in a single swoop. Two days later, on schedule, they begin to go mad, each in his own particular way. Hospitals are jammed, not only with the targets of the virus, but with the victims’ victims. No one knows how many have been infected. No one knows if the person sitting beside them on the bus or in church is about to explode in a murderous frenzy. No one knows if Taiki and his transmitter are still at work.
Physiology: At such times, people often experience headache, chest pain, nausea, irritability and inability to concentrate. They tend to fixate obsessively on news reports and rumors. Paranoia is directed even toward the innocent. So it was in the early months of our own Covid-19 pandemic.
Writing tips: Mass terror + mass media—a perfect marriage. I use the point of view of Jericho Jones, a reporter who streams his dispatches over the implant network. But a mass phenomenon like this can also be conveyed using more private vehicles, such as letters or hearsay. To preserve the generalized scope of this type of threat, it helps to use a bit of detachment. The terror is all the greater for being nebulous and wrapped in mystery.
TERROR FROM WITHIN
Victim and threat are one and the same. The monster lurks in one’s own id.
In Chapter 8, Bivouac, a nightmare takes Taiki back to The Shallows. Only now, he, too, is one of those trapped amid the blood and flames. The Moose confronts him, taunting him with guilt for the massacre. Taiki wakes up gasping. Too wobbly to stand, he tries to flee the vision on his hands and knees. But there can be no escape. The horror comes from inside him.
Physiology: Whether brought on by guilt for past action or the contemplation of enormities still to be committed, the classic manifestation of severe internal conflict is a panic attack. This can include symptoms such as chest pain, shortness of breath, sweating, trembling and a feeling of impending death. It is often mistaken for a heart attack. Less severe episodes may be characterized by light- or heavy-headedness, obsessive or circular thinking, or a sense that one has become separated from the real world.
Writing tips: A self-generated horror can be every bit as devastating as any other. Stream of thought works well here, interspersed with physical details. Usually the precipitating conflict should be prepared in advance. Violating this rule is apt to confuse the reader, but it can still be done (at the writer’s own risk), if the purpose is to set up a mystery that will be revealed later. Whatever conflict is being expressed, it must be authentic for the character. Taiki is by nature a gentle, benevolent person, so he is truly terrified by his own actions. Were he a heartless James Bond villain, he would have no nightmares at all.
Scott Britz-Cunningham, MD, PhD, is a board-certified nuclear medicine physician who holds academic appointments at the University of Massachusetts and Harvard Medical School. His scientific articles have been published in The New England Journal of Medicine, The Journal of Nuclear Medicine, Cancer, and The Journal of Virology. He is the author of two other novels: Code White (Forge Books) and The Immortalist (Simon & Schuster). In his spare time, he performs with the New England Digital Accordion Orchestra and practices Shotokan karate. He and his wife, Evelyn—an artist and art therapist—live in Worcester, Massachusetts. Their grown son, Alex, lives in Maine.
