“Lenn, buti hindi ka nananaginip sa pagbabasa mo ng horror?” My mother-in-law would randomly ask me whenever we are left alone or whenever she saw me holding another horror novel.

I would just laugh it off and let her wonder why I’m so fond of reading such frightening books—books that should, by all means, keep me up at night. Little does she know, it’s actually a defense mechanism on my part.

Growing up, I often had nightmares about losing things and people I love. I think that, despite feeling fine and happy during the day, my fears just sit at the back of my mind, waiting to pounce on me whenever they get the chance. And one way they do so is by creeping into my dreams. On those awful nights, I’d wake up drenched in sweat, either screaming or with my heart racing a million beats per minute. I hate losing people, especially those dearest to me.

That’s why I’m drawn to horror books in the first place. I’d rather dream about ghosts, monsters, and other fictional creatures than face my greatest fear in my sleep.