I forget the number of times that I have woken in the middle of the night and been scared out of my wits. And I do mean out of my wits, as in witless, unable to move, terrified, rigermortis stiff. It’s the stuff in my room, of course, and I’m sure I’m not the only person who this happens to on a regular basis. Each normally innocent thing becomes a different kind of attacking monster: the chair with the jeans over it becomes the elephant in the corner, waiting patiently to impale me on its tusks–and the shelving unit near the door becomes a huge deadly beast. I dare not even speak of the horror that is the bin in the corner. In the dead of night, castings its tentacled shadows (and very much in need of Wart removal , depending on how long you dare look at it), it becomes an octopus-squid-thing perfectly adapted to living on land. Like Freddy Krueger, it feeds on my deepest darkest fear!

And it’s worse when I’ve eaten cheese an hour or so before bed.

If your objective is to become haunted by fear to the extent that you dare not shut your eyes again that night, I recommend you eat extra strong cheddar. That should do the trick.

Of course, all that fear and terror and being-haunted-ness is great when you are a writer. There is an endless source of material within in to construct infinite numbers of elaborate tales. The best part? You can transfer the fear you felt to the reader, thus easing your soul. It’s quite brilliant!