Horror, I think, is one of the hardest genres to write. On the screen, or in the theatre, you can simply switch off the lights and make strange noises and spooky sounds like a wolf's howl. What rapid movements and practical stimulus can do for you, like the temperature suddenly dropping, writers struggle with making the readers feel the same with words—the only tool they have. I've always found horror authentic. You can be horrified by something as small as a lizard crawling up your boot. While a stranger following you in a dark hallway gives a different, worse kind of terror. Though horror is one of the unpopular genres both in the cinema and reading community, it helps writers produce more original works. Horror manifests in so many ways around us, that no matter how many novels have been published, authors will always have a new idea: a finger coming out the sink, a severed head tumbling down the stairs, your worst fears coming true, insects the size of a bear, the line between reality and nightmares fading, elevator leading to an evil world. Or more real terrors: stuck in a house with a serial killer, a claustrophobic person locked in a room that's shrinking, a dark shadow following you, a grinning mad-man staring at you as you walk home after buying groceries. Horror is everywhere. You just have to be the one to notice it.

As I was working on this story, I realised just how hard it was to jot down my thoughts on paper, show the readers what I am seeing, what the characters are feeling. I didn't know how to give you chills. So, I looked for advice. And I found Stephen King's works. Not that I wasn't familiar with them already, but I had never read horror before. Except for maybe a few short stories. I'm in the middle of reading The Shining and have read so many short stories written by King. In his stories, he shows us the goriest things, the most unreal scenes, things we can't possibly make sense of. For example, in The Moving Finger, Stephen tells us the tale of a man who is made to confront his fear of a finger coming out of his bathroom sink; he uses his wife and the show Jeopardy to intensify the dread and suspense about the main character would face the moving finger. Building up suspense is easier in longer stories and novels. But in short stories, you have to take the reader through it all in limited words, show them what happened in that limited time. There's only so much information you can give them.

Now, King says there are three types of horror: The Gross-Out (the first tier), The Horror (the second tier), and The Terror (the last and the worst tier). Albeit I disagree that the horror should stand second, his interpretations do make sense. Too much sense.

In his words, "The 3 types of terror: The Gross-out: the sight of a severed head tumbling down a flight of stairs, it's when the lights go out and something green and slimy splatters against your arm. The Horror: the unnatural, spiders the size of bears, the dead waking up and walking around, it's when the lights go out and something with claws grabs you by the arm. And the last and worse one: Terror, when you come home and notice everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute. It's when the lights go out and you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against your ear, but when you turn around, there's nothing there..."

The Terror is obviously the worse. But I think for me, gore is worse than horror. Hence, I put it as the second tier. I've used many techniques to show horror, though I don't know if they're that effective: Personification, onomatopoeia, suspense, and more. The middle three chapters will each feature one of King's horrors. I hope I haven't failed spectacularly. Read on if you have the heart.

And this was beta'd by my cousins!

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Prologue: The House

The house makes a cracking sound when Peter steps over the ledge. As if to add to the dramatics, the birds flap their wings in a whoosh and fly away, all at once; the branches tremble. Then a crow caws. Peter actually sighs. Lucy is scared enough as is already, clutching to her sister's sleeve with her curled, blanched hand. When his sister starts sobbing, Peter hops back over the ledge and dashes to her. Taking her from Susan's secure arms, he tucks back her hair and asks lovingly, "What is it, Lu?"

"It's so scary. Why do we have to go? Edmund said a Princess died in it. Long ago. Before the Witch came."

Peter glares angrily at his brother who is currently bumping Dracus' shoulder, joking with him. After a second, Edmund catches the threatening glare, glances at Lucy, deciphers the situation, and shrugs innocently, holding up his hands to emphasize. Then goes back to his joking with his friend. Peter wants to punch his teeth out. But resisting the strong urge, he turns back to his sister, smiling at Susan who has knelt beside her. "Well, Lu, no one can hurt us if we stick together, okay? It's been bothering the Narnians for some time. We have to go."

The twelve-year-old sniffs, and then embraces her big brother, wrapping her thin arms around him. "You won't let anything happen to me?"

"Of course not," Peter says, kissing her temple. Then he draws apart, brushing back her golden strands from her face. "Let's go."

He pulls her up from the ground, lets her stand steadily on her feet, and then takes her hand in his, curling his fingers securely around hers. She smiles, satisfied that she'll have her brother by her side at all times. Peter glances back at his brother who is taking his time in following them into the house, still telling mindless jokes, and laughing thunderously to cause more birds to leave the trees, breaking the oddest silence. Peter really wants to punch his teeth out. They reach the ledge they have to jump over in order to enter the house and Peter picks up his sister by her waist, and hauls her over the ledge. She balances herself on it for a few seconds and then jumps to the other side with grace. Peter has already swung a leg over to the other side when Susan comes up beside him. In a poised voice, she says, "Maybe Lu's right, Peter. Maybe we shouldn't. We could always send someone else. I mean, it is scary."

Before Peter can tell her that they have to since they're the Sovereigns of Narnia and hence have to prove their loyalty and willingness to do anything for their Kingdom, Edmund sweeps over to them with a long stride, laughing. "Oh, I think Peter's brave enough, aren't you, Pete?"

Peter flashes his brother a crooked smile and says, "Of course, Ed. But I doubt you are. And you didn't need to come, Dracus."

Dracus who's hovering a yard away from them shrugs and points at Edmund with a glance of his eyes. "Edmund invited me, King Peter."

Peter grits his teeth, seething internally. Then he allows himself to relax, and smiles. "Yes, of course, Dracus. You're one of our most trusted friends after all." Who we've known for less than a month.

He then twists, jumps back over the ledge, and takes Lucy's hand again. Lucy giggles, coming closer to him. He looks down at his littlest sister, raising his brows in confusion. Wasn't she scared only a minute ago? "You're so jealous of him," she says, giggling.

Peter finds her words critically wrong. "What?" he exclaims. Very loudly. More birds leave their nests. Then he clears his throat, realizing his siblings and Dracus are staring confusedly at him. He lowers his voice enough for the creaks of the floor to echo. "What do you mean?" he asks, a part of him is pleased that Lucy has been derogated from the creepiness of the place. The air is thin and cold, silent. But Lucy is still giggling.

"It's obvious. You're jealous of Dracus. I would be too if Edmund brought home another little sister." She giggles again, trying to hide her soft chuckles behind the cover of her hand.

They're at the old, yellowing, covered in mosses, cracked from various places, door when Peter says to his sister, "He's not his older brother though, Lu." But when he looks back to see his brother crack another joke, he thinks that might not be true after all. Did he make him angry somehow? Is that why he's been acting so arrogantly? Why did he feel the need to find a second brother? Peter's eyes meet his brother's for a fraction of a second, and Edmund smiles at him like he has so many times before. The reassuring, little brother smile. Innocent yet cheeky. Meaning so many different things that only a brother could understand it. Then Edmund goes back to his casual chat with Dracus. Peter sighs, turning to the door. Susan grabs his hand before he can turn the cobwebbed doorknob.

"Please, Peter, rethink this."

Edmund coughs from behind them, then taps his chest. "Water went down the wrong pipe."

"But you're not drinking any water," Lucy said, tilting her head.

"I did though. An hour ago," Edmund says, huffing.

Peter rolls his eyes, unimpressed by his brother's insolent reply. He turns to his sister, reassuring her with a smile. "Logic says there's nothing supernatural in there. Why are you scared?"

Susan frowns, crossing her arms. "I'm not. I just wish we didn't have to take the risk. There could be anything in there. The fell—"

"We have our swords," Peter supplies, bringing out Rhindon from its sheath, then gesturing at Edmund's and Dracus' swords hanging from their hips. They smile. "There's really nothing to be scared of. Even Lucy isn't afraid anymore, are you, Lu?"

She giggles gleefully, gipping his hand more tightly. "No, Peter. I have you."

"See?" he asks Susan who's still frowning. "Come on, let's go."

And Peter turns the doorknob.

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Happy Halloween!