Creating Unreliable Narrators in Horror Fiction

Unreliable narrators are among the most powerful tools in a horror writer’s toolbox. In the horror context, the narrator’s distortions, self‑deceptions, or outright lies help sustain ambiguity, dread, and tension. But executing this well takes care. You need to balance what the narrator reveals and what they conceal. In this article, we’ll explore what makes a narrator unreliable, why they’re especially effective in horror, and practical techniques to design them. We’ll also look at pitfalls to avoid and examples that show these strategies in action.

What Is an Unreliable Narrator — and Why Use One in Horror?

The core idea

An unreliable narrator is a narrator whose account of events cannot be fully trusted by the reader because of biases, memory gaps, mental instability, deliberate deceit, or misinterpretation. In fiction, such narrators skew the reader’s perspective, forcing readers to question what’s “real” and what’s an illusion.

In horror, that ambiguity is fertile ground. Because the unknown, the uncanny, and the uncanny’s proximity to madness are central to the genre, an unreliable narrator naturally amplifies tension and uncertainty.

Why it works especially well in horror

• Shadows on certainty. Horror often thrives on what might be real and what might be imagined. An unreliable narrator makes that tension more immediate. As The Write Practice puts it, unreliable narrators create “a sense of unease and ambiguity” — is something supernatural happening, or is the narrator’s mind cracking?
• Internal conflict = external terror. When the narrator doubts their own perceptions, the internal struggle becomes part of the horror. Readers start to fear not just the external threat, but their own narrator’s mind.
• Twist potential. Because the narrator is prone to distortion, you can embed a twist that reframes prior events. The “reveal” can be of what’s real, or what the narrator was hiding.
• Psychological immediacy. Horror that is rooted in the human psyche, madness, delusion, or obsession is more visceral when filtered through a narrator we can’t rely on. Many psychological horror stories use exactly that trick.

Types / Causes of Unreliability in Horror

Unreliability doesn’t come in one flavor. Below are common ways a horror narrator can be unreliable:

1. Mental instability / madness
   The narrator’s psyche is fraying. They misinterpret sensory data, hallucinate, or slip into obsession. Lovecraftian horror often uses this approach, where the narrator’s sanity is as suspect as the monsters they describe.
2. Memory loss or amnesia
   The narrator cannot reliably recall parts of the past. This gives room for surprises about what really happened. The Novelry calls this a valid “lie with purpose” technique: the narrator’s misremembering has meaning.
3. Deliberate deception / lies
   The narrator is actively lying or withholding. They’re not just mistaken — they’re concealing or manipulating. LitReactor notes that lying narrators are one common route to unreliability.
4. Substance use / altered consciousness
   Drugs, alcohol, or supernatural substances can make the narrator’s perception untrustworthy. The narrator may not realize what’s hallucination and what’s real.
5. Trauma / emotional distortion
   The narrator misinterprets events because their trauma warps perception. For example, grief might make them see ghosts where there are none.
6. Paranoia / external influence
   They believe in conspiracies, feel external mind control, or sense a malignant force, and the rest of the text may or may not support that belief.
7. Supernatural possession or influence
   In some horror, there is in fact something supernatural happening — but the narrator’s perspective is unreliable about its nature, timing, or implications.

You can even combine multiple forms — a traumatized narrator with partial amnesia under supernatural influence might be especially disorienting.

Principles & Techniques for Crafting a Believable Unreliable Narrator in Horror

Below are strategies to help you design an unreliable narrator that feels organic rather than gimmicky.

1. Establish baseline credibility first

One of the keys is to let readers trust the narrator a little bit before gradually revealing fractures. If the narrator is obviously unhinged from the start, the effect loses tension because readers won’t lean in — they’ll just dismiss everything. Bryan W. Alaspa advises to “make your narrator seem trustworthy before letting the cracks show.” 

You don’t have to go overboard — just give them small relatable truths, emotions, or observations the reader can latch to.

2. Layer in subtle “wrongness” clues

You want hints — not neon signs. These should be clues the reader can piece together, ideally in retrospect.

• Inconsistent sensory details (e.g. “I heard a whisper” vs “No whisper at all”)
• Minor contradictions in timeline or setting
• Small, odd omissions (“I forgot to mention that…”)
• Dialogue that seems off, or reactions from other characters that don’t align with what the narrator says
• Moments of uncertainty: the narrator questions their own sight, memory, or motives

The goal is that the reader begins to doubt the narrator quietly, not be told to.

3. Let the narrator believe their account

The strongest unreliable narrators aren’t liars aware of their lies; they believe their version of events. Their distortion is sincere. The Novelry calls this “the unreliable narrator’s ‘truth’ is their primary motivation.” 

If the narrator is trying to deceive the reader, you lose depth. But if they misinterpret honestly, the narrative tension is deeper.

4. Use the narrator’s limitations deliberately

Because the narrator’s perspective is limited — by memory, sanity, bias — you can exploit that. Think in terms of what they can’t or won’t see or report. Use omissions, blind spots, evasions, or repressed memories.

5. Vary the rhythm of clarity vs confusion

You don’t want a constant haze — that becomes fatigue. Alternate clearer moments (where the narrator seems lucid) with distorted or ambiguous ones. Those moments of clarity help anchor the reader; then plunge them back into uncertainty.

6. Mirror horror with internal conflict

Let the narrator’s internal dissonance reflect or echo the external horror. Their fears, guilt, obsessions can bleed into how they describe external events. By intertwining internal and external horror, the unreliability feels thematically justified.

7. Be consistent in unreliability’s logic

Even though your narrator lies or misleads, their distortion should follow internal logic. Don’t have random contradictions that break immersion. For example: if they hallucinate voices only when anxious, don’t suddenly have them hallucinate in calm scenes with no warning.

8. Don’t overdo it — preserve reader trust enough to care

An unreliable narrator can backfire if the reader feels cheated or manipulated. One mistake is constant lying with no anchor. You want to preserve a thread of trust so the reader invests emotionally.

Kris Lamb in Deception as a Storytelling Device argues that the art of the unreliable narrator lies in deception you can forgive. 

9. Reveal — or don’t — but own your ending twist

Decide how much you’ll expose. Is there a conclusive “this narrator was wrong” ending, or do you leave open ambiguity? If you do reveal, scaffold it: use misdirection, make your twist feel earned. If you lean into ambiguity, make sure the unresolved tension is intentional and coherent.

Example(s) & Case Studies

Here are a few treatments to illustrate what we’ve covered.

The Repairer of Reputations by Robert W. Chambers

In this early weird/horror story, the narrator Hildred Castaigne comes across as confident and authoritative — but gradually we see his perspective is warped after head injury. Some details (a “heavy gold” diadem that others call a “brass crown”) reveal his distortion.
The story invites readers to doubt nearly everything the narrator says, and to see how his mental state (and possible madness) shapes reality.

Lovecraftian & cosmic horror

Stories by Lovecraft or those inspired by him often feature narrators who are pushed past sanity by cosmic dread. The narrator’s journal becomes the only legacy, and the reader wonders: were the horrors real, or products of a collapsing mind? 

Classic “madman” narrators

Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell‑Tale Heart” is a famous example. The narrator insists on their sanity even while describing grotesque murder. Their heightened senses, paranoia, and obsession gradually erode their credibility. 

Outline: A Step‑by‑Step Approach to Designing Your Unreliable Horror Narrator

Here’s a suggested workflow to help you construct your own:

1. Define the core “lie” or distortion
   Decide what your narrator is misconceiving, hiding, or misremembering. Is it an external supernatural threat, or internal delusion?
2. Backfill motivation & psychology
   Why do they misinterpret? Trauma? Guilt? Paranoia? Their emotional life should feed the distortion.
3. Sketch the “true” timeline (behind the scenes)
   Write a version of events from an objective perspective. That will be your anchor.
4. Craft the narrative vantage (first person, journal, letters, etc.)
   Choose a format that naturally supports subjective filtering (e.g. diary, transcript, confession).
5. Plant clues & contradictions
   Insert subtle inconsistencies, omissions, odd reactions from others, moments of doubt.
6. Decide pacing of reveal
   When and how will you pull back the curtain (if at all)? Plan the crescendo.
7. Balance clarity & uncertainty
   Give enough stable ground so readers stay invested, then pull them off balance with distortions.
8. Review and prune “too obvious” signals
   After drafting, go back and remove overly blatant hints, unless they are intentional misdirection.
9. Beta read with doubt in mind
   Ask readers: what did they believe? What did they suspect? Did they feel cheated, or compelled?

Common Pitfalls & How to Avoid Them

Tips & Practices to Strengthen Your Technique

• Write “blind” first: Draft the story from narrator’s perspective without overthinking the twist; then revise to layer in clues and inconsistencies.
• Alternate points of view (sparingly): Occasionally providing a brief scene from another character’s eyes can sharpen contrast — but use with care so you don’t undercut the mystery.
• Use unreliable memory as a tool: Scenes described twice from different angles can help fuel doubt.
• Stress sensory detail and uncertainty: Let the narrator’s senses betray them — misheard sounds, shifting shadows, unreliable touch or smell.
• Mirror horror vocabulary with internal struggle: Use imagery that overlaps internal states and external dread (e.g. “the walls seem to pulse like a beating heart,” reflecting anxiety).
• Test it by hiding clues: After writing, try removing or masking hints — does the structure still support the twist?
• Read in the wild: Use stories you admire as models. Break them down and see how many clues you can spot only in retrospect.

Sample Mini Sketch

Here’s a short illustrative sketch (not a full story) to show unreliability at work. (Feel free to use or expand it.)

I came downstairs at midnight because of the noise again.
The old mirror in the hallway was cracked — though I didn’t recall it being so before. And now? Its edges seemed to quiver in the moonlight. I shook my head. Of course, mirrors don’t quiver.

I passed the kitchen and saw a figure at the window — a silhouette staring back at me. I froze. My mind raced: was it real? Or a trick of my imagination?

I reached for the light switch.
The bulb flickered, dimmed. In that dimness, the reflection in the hallway mirror looked wrong: a face that wasn’t mine. I blinked — but the face remained.

I whispered, “Who’s there?”
The mirror answered, or so it felt. Something croaked behind me.

When I spun around, no one was there.

Later, in daylight, I walked to the mirror again. The crack was gone. The hallway was empty. I checked the light switch — it worked. I might have imagined it all.

But I felt a chill. I’m not so sure now.

In this sketch, the narrator experiences odd sensory phenomena, questions their own perception, and gives just enough ambiguity to make the reader wonder what’s real.

Final Thoughts & Reader Experience

Using an unreliable narrator in horror is like walking a tightrope: you want readers to question, to doubt, to fear that their expectations are shaky. But you also want them emotionally invested enough to care what really is happening.

The strongest unreliable narrators in horror do not feel like tricks — they feel like minds unraveling. The horror isn’t only what the narrator might see, but how deeply their own narrative fails them. When done well, this turns every sentence, every detail, into a potential clue or misdirection.

If you like, I can send you a mini version of a horror story using an unreliable narrator (500–800 words) as a case study, or help you workshop one you’re writing. Just say the word.

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