During the night the wind rose. As I had lain reading I had become aware of the stronger gusts that blew every so often against the casements. But when I awoke abruptly in the early hours it had increased greatly in force. The house felt like a ship at sea, battered by the gale that came roaring across the open marsh. Windows were rattling everywhere and there was the sound of moaning down all the chimneys of the house and whistling through every nook and cranny.

 At first I was alarmed. Then, as I lay still, gathering my wits, I reflected on how long Eel Marsh House had stood here, steady as a lighthouse, quite alone and exposed, bearing the brunt of winter after winter of gales and driving rain and sleet and spray. It was unlikely to blow away tonight. And then, those memories of childhood began to be stirred again and I dwelt nostalgically upon all those nights when I had lain in the warm and snug safety of my bed in the nursery at the top of our family house in Sussex, hearing the wind rage round like a lion, howling at the doors and beating upon the windows but powerless to reach me. I lay back and slipped into that pleasant, trance-like state somewhere between sleeping and waking, recalling the past and all its emotions and impressions vividly, until I felt I was a small boy again.

Then from somewhere, out of that howling darkness, a cry came to my ears, catapulting me back into the present and banishing all tranquillity. I listened hard. Nothing. The tumult of the wind, like a banshee, and the banging and rattling of the window in its old, ill-fitting frame. Then yes, again, a cry, that familiar cry of desperation and anguish, a cry for help from a child somewhere out on the marsh. There was no child. I knew that. How could there be? Yet how could I lie here and ignore even the crying of some long-dead ghost?

‘Rest in peace,’ I thought, but this poor one did not, could not.

The essence of you remained long after

Your presence was banished.

Fake smiling teeth, lips bare grimaced

sharp tongue pierces everyone

Hair transmorphs time and space

Would I recognise you now?

See myself reflected in your eyes?

Grasping shadows to your chest

You prowl the periphery

While I pretend not to see

Always glancing back to catch a trace of you

As you slip through my fingers again and again

Clothed in secrecy you slide through

The space I created between us

Out of sight but never quite out of mind

Stalking me like prey. To dominate. To conquer. To destroy.

A stereotype in story told to scare children

Into bed at night

But I am not a child. And I am not prey.

after weeks of being inside,

there you were, leaning casually

by a tree, swinging something,

what was it? A pocket watch?

I thought you were a werewolf,

or hoped, perhaps, you were

something knowable, something

from a fairy tale

I begin to walk on and the noise resumes. I take out my phone to ring someone, to hear the voice that I feel might provide security.

I speed up and so too do the steps. Is it an echo? I feel hot breath on my neck and break in to a run.

It reaches out and touches faith bringing with it memories locked up on dusty shelves in the archives since your teenage years. The song lyrics cascade through your brain and you realise that this is the nursery rhyme. The voice is whistling one of your favourite teen songs. Terror trickles down your spine, the realisation that the voice knows you only triggers a freeze response. You are paralysed. Feet rooted to the ground as they seek out water underneath the emerald grass beneath your shoes.