Sometimes, a thriller catches us by surprise. We open the book expecting a familiar collection of deaths, clues and suspicious characters, only to discover something richer waiting inside. The story refuses to let us go. We keep turning pages long after we intended to stop, savouring each disturbing development like chocolate melting slowly across the tongue.
That was the effect I wanted when I began writing the SEETHINGS psychological thriller trilogy.
I didn’t merely want to produce another thriller about a dangerous man being pursued by someone morally superior. There are already shelves filled with those stories. The villain commits an awful crime, the hero follows a conveniently scattered trail of evidence, and justice arrives before the reader turns off the bedside lamp.
Everything is wrapped neatly. The guilty are punished. The innocent are vindicated. Order is restored.
Where’s the flavour in that?
Chocolate isn’t appealing because it is orderly. It attracts us because it is indulgent, messy and slightly unnecessary. It softens when held, stains fingers and leaves evidence around the mouth. We know we don’t need it, but desire rarely consults the nutrition panel before deciding.
A good psychological thriller should work in much the same way.
It should offer the reader something they know they probably shouldn’t enjoy. It should put an unsettling thought on their tongue and let it dissolve slowly. By the time they recognise what they have consumed, it should be too late to spit it out.
That kind of thriller requires more than a wicked antagonist. Evil by itself can become surprisingly dull. A character who is cruel from beginning to end gives the reader nowhere interesting to go. We recognise the monster, condemn it and wait for someone to destroy it. It is one reason great heroes demand quality villains if a story is to become truly memorable.
The more intriguing villain is the one who makes sense.
We may despise what this person does, but we understand how they arrived there. We recognise the injury that never healed, the humiliation that fermented, or the private injustice that grew sharper with time. Somewhere inside their corrupted reasoning sits a small piece of emotional truth.
That truth is the sugar in the mixture.
It encourages readers to take another bite.
A writer can then add darker ingredients: obsession, jealousy, manipulation, sexual frustration, revenge and the quiet belief that ordinary rules apply only to ordinary people. When blended carefully, these elements produce a character who is horrifying without becoming unbelievable.
The reader may even begin to sympathise.
That’s when the story becomes dangerous.
Readers like to imagine there is a permanent wall between themselves and a fictional predator. The monster occupies one side; decent people occupy the other. Dark psychological fiction and moral ambiguity can make that wall transparent. It may even reveal a crack running through it.
Perhaps we understand the villain’s anger. Perhaps we have experienced the same rejection or fantasised about a similar revenge. We would never act upon it, of course—but the distance between “never” and “under the right circumstances” can become uncomfortably narrow.
That discomfort is where I like to write.
Mitchell Felding is not designed merely to leap from the shadows and frighten the reader. He has a recognisable life, a profession and a way of interpreting the world. His thoughts have been shaped by disappointment, desire and a growing conviction that he sees what others cannot.
He does not consider himself ridiculous or cartoonishly evil. Few dangerous people do.
To him, his reasoning is logical.
That doesn’t make him innocent. It makes him more disturbing.
Mitchell also possesses enough humanity to keep the reader close. This is part of the delicate business of redeeming evil characters. Give a monster no recognisable qualities and the reader can dismiss him. Give him love, intelligence, humour or loyalty, and condemnation becomes more complicated.
The challenge was to bring readers close enough to Mitchell’s thoughts that they could feel their persuasive warmth without forgetting what those thoughts conceal. I wanted them to understand him, then feel uneasy about having understood him. If they found themselves agreeing with him for even a moment, the thriller had done its work.
It’s similar to offering chocolate to someone who has never tasted it. Describing sweetness alone won’t do. You have to explain the silky texture, the warmth as it softens, the faint bitterness beneath the sugar and the desire for a second piece before the first has disappeared.
A compelling thriller plot also needs layers. The initial taste draws the reader in, but something deeper keeps them there. Familiar structures can still be useful, but crafting original stories without clichés means disguising those structures well enough that readers don’t see the machinery operating beneath them.
Plot twists help, but surprise alone is not enough. A twist that exists merely to shock is like biting into chocolate and discovering it’s filled with toothpaste. It is unexpected, certainly, but surprise does not automatically make it satisfying.
The best revelations feel inevitable in hindsight. The evidence was present, but the reader interpreted it incorrectly. Their assumptions provided the camouflage. When the truth finally appears, it changes the flavour of everything that came before.
Timing matters too. A properly placed climax must feel earned rather than mechanically scheduled. The writer tightens the tension, postpones relief and lets the pressure build until the reader is desperate for release. When the moment arrives, it should feel both shocking and unavoidable.
This is why morally ambiguous stories often stay with us longer than neatly resolved ones. A conventional ending tells the reader what to think. A darker ending continues asking questions after the book is closed.
Was justice served?
Did the right person win?
Was there ever a right person?
And why did we enjoy spending time inside the mind of someone we would avoid in real life?
I don’t believe every villain must be caught, redeemed or marched into court for the reader’s reassurance. Fiction allows us to enter places we would never willingly visit and follow people we would never invite home. Sometimes the villain wears our face, forcing us to consider what we might become if the right combination of pressure, injury and opportunity appeared.
Not every story should disinfect the darkness afterwards.
Sometimes the ribbon should remain untied.
Sometimes the darkness should win.
Some stories should end where the consequences begin. The lie of resolution is that every wound closes, every moral debt is paid, and every damaged character eventually learns something useful. Real harm is rarely that cooperative.
Sometimes the reader should be left holding the empty wrapper, wondering why the experience tasted so good.
That is the kind of thriller I wanted SEETHINGS to become: rich, dark and morally sticky. It doesn’t offer a comfortable division between heroes and villains. It asks the reader to lean closer, look into the shadows and consider whether the monster is entirely unlike them.
If Hannibal Lecter is fine dining, Mitchell Felding is the chocolate someone warned you not to eat.
It has been sitting within reach all this time.
You know you’re curious.
Will you take a bite?
–Michael (Dark Fiction. Author of SEETHINGS (the first book), free for a limited time)
SEETHINGS promises a gripping psychological thriller that blends murder, passion, and secrets of a sexless marriage. Forman’s vivid prose draws readers into a world where lightning illuminates the skies and hidden truths. As the storm clouds gather, Mitchell’s journey promises to unravel more than just the mystery of the murders.
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