Let the Dark Take Me

Fear and Arousal Live in the Same Place

It starts in the breath.

That hitch in your chest.
That clench in your belly.
The way your skin listens—hungry, alert—when the dark whispers your name.

You don’t know if it’s sex or survival.
You only know you want more.

Let the dark take me. That’s the spell, the plea.
And horror, oh horror, answers like a lover with cold hands and a mouth full of need.

The Shiver That Slides Between Your Thighs

The same jolt that sends you running from a shadow is the one that makes your thighs tremble when you’re pinned, breathless, beneath someone’s gaze.

Fear and arousal live in the same place—neurochemically, yes, but also poetically. Your body doesn’t distinguish between the gasp of dread and the gasp of want. Adrenaline. Dopamine. A flash flood of sensation.

It’s why we moan when we’re scared.
Why some of us come alive in the edge-space between pain and pleasure.
Why the knife against the neck can feel like a kiss if the hand holding it knows your name.

I learned this in the Navy, strangely enough.
Standing still while being screamed at.
Holding position while my body begged to flee.
It taught me how to stay.
Taught me how to ache without flinching.

Later, in beds I wasn’t supposed to be in, I discovered a different kind of fear:
The fear of being seen.
Of being wanted.
Of being touched where I couldn’t hide.

Both kinds undressed me.

Let the Dark Take Me

There’s something holy about surrendering to horror.
Letting it open you.
Letting it ravage you.

When the lights go down and the creature steps into the doorway, something primal hums inside. You’re not sure if you’re about to scream or come—and doesn’t that ambiguity thrill you?

This is where I live, now.
In stories with teeth.
In characters who tremble and take it anyway.
In lovers who pull you into the woods and don’t promise safe returns.

There’s a kind of intimacy in terror that vanilla love rarely touches.
A knowing.
A trust.

You let them in.
Even when they knock like wolves.

Horror Makes You Wet Because It Knows Where to Touch

It caresses your shame.
It strokes your thresholds.
It fucks with your mind, and if it’s doing it right, you love the violation.

The best horror is erotica with the lights off.
It undresses you with atmosphere.
It whispers into your insecurities.
It gets you alone, and then it… lingers.

When I write it, I want you to feel stalked by your own hunger.
I want the monster to look like someone you used to love.
I want the blood to feel warm on your chest.
I want the chains to feel like silk.

What You Fear Is What You Want

Let horror touch the parts of you no one else dares.
Let it seduce your edges.
Let it break you open and feed on what spills out.

Because deep down, you don’t just want to survive the dark.
You want to belong to it.

And when you finally moan into its mouth, you’ll realize—
It always belonged to you.