“Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed,” wrote a 16th-century goateed gent from Stratford-Upon-Avon.

OK, perhaps this was true back in Shakespeare’s day, when the scariest things were the occasional runaway pig and a soupçon of Black Death, but give him a Saw box set and I’m sure he’d have realised how enjoyable a little horror can be.

Fear and abject terror are possibly the most instantaneously exhilarating emotions of them all; these days, more and more directors of theatre have realised that the stage is the ideal playground to toy with our utmost trepidations.

Evoking more adrenalin than a rusty fairground ride while creating a strange sublimity comes film director Danny Boyle (28 Days Later and Slumdog Millionaire) and his stage adaptation of Mary Shelley’s 19th-century gothic novel Frankenstein. Actors Johnny Lee Miller and Benedict Cumberbatch oscillate between monster and creator with every performance, exposing the thin line between genius and insanity.

I’m not scared of many things. Which is why I was more than surprised to be more than a little terrified by a play.

As a child I slowly built up a tolerance to the most obvious fears (worry not, this isn’t a confession of Fritzl-like mistreatment), thanks to regular occurrences when my brother would suddenly run out of the room, turn the light off, hold the handle on the other side to quash my feeble attempts of escape and scream “Aliens!” at the top of his voice. It was subtle, but effectively removed most anxieties towards a) the dark and b) aliens.

Of course my fear has bounds, an exception being the long-nosed prancing Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, (but I think this is a universal given) and toads, having once accidentally sat on one. The image of its quivering, flabby-skinned carcass is not only etched into my mind, but is also ingrained into the fibres of one of my favourite garments, like it’s haunting me from beyond its tiny amphibian grave.

Another master of cerebral terrorising is Jeremy Dyson, one of the creators of the disturbingly brilliant comedy series The League of Gentlemen. Having successfully co-written and directed Ghost Stories, one of the most soil-yourself-worthy theatrical productions of recent times, he has now adapted Roald Dahl’s adult stories into Twisted Tales, an eerie stage spectacle that plays on the awkward, unexpected and most macabre corners of our imagination. After watching it, I felt pretty woozy, but that could have been a mixture of canned gin and the altitude that come with a cheap ticket.

Perhaps in the theatre, I’m more aware that I can’t just switch it off and pop on The Two Ronnies to calm my nerves, or maybe it’s the fact the horror is laid bare before you in all its human form – either way, I can’t resist it.

But if the day ever arrives when Paul McCartney decides to team up with Andrew Lloyd Monobrow and make a musical of his frog song We All Stand Together, then I’m in serious trouble.

More Nicola:

... on bromance

... on awards

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