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step, but my right foot will not co-operate. It is paralysed. It will not move. Frowning, I attempt to force it forward but to no avail. Trapped by my own cowardice I glance around, fearful of the shadows and what lies beyond. I am also angry, angry at myself for failing such a trivial task.
    I look into the gloom sourly contemplating my inability to control my emotions, and I am struck by the idea that I am not alone. The bats are gone and the owl is silent. But I am not alone. I can feel it. Something is in the garden with me. Something or someone.
    Unexpectedly, hot, immobilising fear does not come, for this unannounced presence emanates not hatred but something very different. Something possibly good.
    A cool breeze lifts the black tendrils of my hair, and I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye. I turn, gasp.
    A woman of similar age to my own stands only two yards away. Her back faces me and she is naked. In the blackness of night, her alabaster skin is pure, opalescent. Her slim arms hang motionless by her sides. Her hair is as long and inky as my own, but glossy as a panther's pelt. She must be so cold yet she stands perfectly still; not an inch of her body shivers. My own toes are numb as is my nose and the tips of my ears.
    “Hello?” I say quietly.
    Without turning, she says, “Hello Lisbeth!”
    Her voice plays a merry tune.
    I hesitate, shocked and a little nervous, “How do you know my name?”
    Instead of answering she laughs a fairy-light, tinkling sound. It is the sound of daisies in Spring.
    I wonder how long it has been since I last laughed.
    I step towards her, “Are you not cold?”
    “Ha ha! I do not feel the cold any longer. I do not let it touch me!” she says.
    Her tone is so light, so abandoned of cares, and though I cannot see her face, I can tell she is smiling.
    “What is your name?” I ask.
    “Bethan. Similar to yours!”
    She laughs again and I wish I could join in.
    “Why are you here?”
    Before she answers, I hear Eddie scream. Alarm takes over all else.
    “Oh what a shame,” she says, “you had better go.”
    I lift my skirts preparing to take flight, but hesitate, “Will you come again?”
    She laughs, “Yes! Of course I will.”
    “Good,” I say before rushing back to the cottage.
     
     
    *
     
     
    I dash into Eddie's bedroom. For a moment I cannot distinguish his small body in the bed, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness I see his tousled hair and white face. Stumbling forward I take his face in my hands.
    “Are you okay my darling?” I whisper urgently.
    But he lies motionless; a mere statue, a sleeping prince. His only answer is a heavy sigh.
    I feel his forehead. It is slick with perspiration. He frowns, but slumbers deeply. His little chest rises and falls draggingly. The nightmare has passed.
    I leave the room and gingerly pull the door to.
    Suddenly exhausted, crossing the landing and flopping onto the bed takes an immense effort.
    Too tired to undress, I sleep.
     
     
    *
     
     
    Dear Diary,
    A scream! Piercing and desperate. Wretched, guttural. A scream so chilling it lingers in my ear like the sight of a hanged man in the mind’s eye.
    I tried to move, I really did, but my legs resisted. Deep down I think I knew that any help on my part would be futile, and it was this that locked me in place. So I remained sitting at my desk, hands wringing, leg twitching, mind racing.
    And now I am aggravated. Aggravated by myself and by her. Were it not for her I could sleep peacefully at night, undisturbed by hideous noises! Were it not for my weak mind, perhaps I could resolve things little by little, once and for all!
    My face is reddening. The veins in my neck are throbbing. I am queasy and the head pains are stabbing, brutalising. The temptation to go up to Lisbeth’s room, wrap my hands about her tender white throat, and squeeze, squeeze until she is silent, until her misery is unearthed and sent to the heavens leaving me at last with some kind of peace, is