Forget haunted houses. You want a real horror story? Give me four miserable billionaires locked in a penthouse, playing emotional Hunger Games with Daddy’s approval while the world burns below them. Succession didn’t just redefine prestige television—it redefined terror. Not with jump scares or ghosts, but with power, proximity, and poison dressed in Tom Ford suits.
Let’s be honest. If you’ve ever had a rich boss, a manipulative family member, or been on the receiving end of an HR email that says “circle back,” Succession hits different. It’s not just a drama—it’s a psychological thriller with better lighting and sharper insults. And in peeling back the glossy veneer of the ultra-wealthy, it confirms something we’ve all suspected deep down: unchecked wealth doesn’t breed happiness, it breeds monsters.
The House Is Haunted, But It’s a Manhattan Townhouse
In classic horror, the setting matters. The creaky Victorian. The abandoned asylum. In Succession, the horror lives in glass-walled boardrooms, private jets, and ski lodges. These aren’t just backdrops—they’re character studies. Every sterile, overly curated location screams emotional vacancy. The spaces are cold, unwelcoming, and eerily quiet. There’s no warmth. No art. No joy.
It’s the kind of wealth that doesn’t decorate with meaning—it decorates with dominance. Every location screams, We don’t live here. We reign here. Which, frankly, is way scarier than a haunted basement.
Logan Roy: The Ghost That Never Dies
Every horror story needs a villain. Logan Roy wasn’t supernatural, but his influence sure was. He hovered like a specter, both omnipresent and emotionally absent. A man so emotionally constipated he weaponized silence like a scalpel. He didn’t need to raise a fist—he raised a brow. He didn’t need to scream—he just said “Boar on the floor.”
He gaslit, he groomed, he pitted his children against each other like it was a live-streamed Roman death match. And worse? They begged for it. Because nothing is more terrifying than realizing the monster you’re running from is also the one you’re chasing.
The Children of the Corny and Traumatized
Kendall, Shiv, Roman, and Connor are the real horror show. You could label them: the Addict, the Girlboss, the Masochist, and the Delusional. But that would be too easy. They’re not caricatures—they’re cautionary tales.
- Kendall is the walking embodiment of generational trauma in a Gucci bomber. He’s the guy you’d trust to DJ your party but never to run your life. His strength is performance; his weakness is the belief that he has any.
- Shiv is every competent woman who was told she had to be twice as ruthless to get half as far—except she bought the lie. She’s brilliant, biting, and constantly let down by a world that taught her to mimic the men who fail upward.
- Roman is the comic relief until you realize every punchline is a cry for help. He’s stunted, slick, and so desperate for love he’d let anyone who vaguely resembles a father figure emotionally waterboard him.
- Connor is America. That’s it. That’s the joke.
The true horror? None of them are free. Not from their father. Not from each other. Not even from themselves.
Power Is the Knife—and the Wound
Where most horror stories build tension around a threat to life, Succession builds it around a threat to ego. Every scene drips with menace, not because someone might die—but because someone might be embarrassed. In their world, humiliation is capital punishment.
That’s what makes the stakes so uniquely terrifying. There’s no villain in a mask. There’s no supernatural force. There’s just the endless, suffocating pressure to perform, impress, and dominate. Every hug feels like a setup. Every deal has a catch. Every wedding is a war zone. Trust no one. Not even yourself.
The Final Girl Is Capitalism
If you’re waiting for a hero to rise, don’t. There are no survivors in this genre. Not really. The ending of Succession doesn’t reward anyone. It just shifts the horror to a new floor of the same building. Like all great horror, it ends in a cycle. A curse. A scream swallowed into silence.
The finale isn’t catharsis—it’s confirmation. That in this world, power doesn’t corrupt some. It corrupts all. And if it doesn’t, it excludes you.
Why It Resonates (and Hurts)
For those of us who grew up around dysfunction—whether it was in our families, our jobs, or even just our social circles—Succession didn’t feel like fiction. It felt like a twisted mirror. It’s trauma comedy. It’s PTSD prestige. It’s Shakespeare with f-bombs and stock options.
And it also serves as a reminder: the rich aren’t like us. They’re worse.
Because when you have everything and still feel nothing? That’s the true horror. The kind that doesn’t end with credits. The kind that echoes long after the screen goes black.
So yes, wealth can be a horror genre.
It’s not just the excess. It’s the emptiness. The performative intimacy. The loyalty bought in yachts and broken in whispers. Succession nailed the genre because it didn’t dress power up—it stripped it down. And what we saw underneath was uglier than any ghost or ghoul could ever be.
And frankly? I’m still recovering. But at least I’m not calling Daddy to approve my trauma.