During the day I could forget, but at night, in the darkness, it all came back, and I had to fight a terrible battle to keep that scene from reappearing in my mind.
I eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep, and it was much later when I awoke with a start. Something had awakened me. I had been having a nightmare, and then some noise or movement had jerked me abruptly into consciousness. Every nerve was taut. I might never have slept. The room was cold. I was shivering. Icy fingers seemed to stroke my bare arms and shoulders. I had left the window open as I always did, and the night had grown colder, but that wasnât why I shivered.
My heart was pounding. I was paralyzed with fear. Why? What had caused it? It was very real, holding me in its grip. I had been dreaming of a dark alley filled with fog, and there were footsteps, drawing nearer, and then there was a loud clattering noise, as though a lid had been knocked off the top of a trash bin. The noise had awakened me. I was certain it hadnât been part of my dream.
The bedclothes rustled at the foot of the bed. Something gripped my knee tightly. My blood seemed to turn to ice, and I donât know why I didnât scream. Scrappy mewed sleepily, moved across my legs and curled himself up on the covers.
âYou silly cat!â I exclaimed. âYou frightened me half to death.â
I shook my head and smiled at my own foolish alarm as Scrappy nestled up under a fold of the counterpane and gave a sleepy grunt. The curtains billowed, making a stiff rustling noise. I got up to close the window, moving carefully so as not to disturb the kitten. Pushing the curtains aside, I reached up to pull the window down, and then I peered into the courtyard below. My hand froze on the window frame. I stood very, very still. The fear returned, sharper than before, pressing all around me.
The courtyard was dark, tall gray walls closing around it, thick tendrils of fog filling it with a moving, swirling whiteness. Something moved behind the cover of fog. I was certain of it. Behind the mist there was a dark form, barely visible, moving stealthily toward the house. I strained to listen, and over the whisper of wind it seemed I heard footsteps on the flagstones. Wind stirred the fog. Tendrils broke and parted, revealing a section of the wall, part of the ground. I saw a pair of legs, the hem of a cloak, then whiteness floating cloudlike, obscuring everything.
There was nothing more. I must have stood at the window for at least five minutes, peering into that basin of fog, the cold night air stroking flushed cheeks and blowing wisps of hair against my temples. I had imagined it all. Of course. It had been my imagination. I had awakened in the middle of the night, shaken by a nightmare, my nerves on edge, receptive to the suggestions of an overwrought mind. I closed the window and sat on the edge of the bed, frowning, trying to convince myself that I hadnât seen anything.
The house was silent. The room was still cold. I knew I should get back under the covers and try to go back to sleep, but I couldnât. I sat there waiting. I realized all at once that that was what I was doing: waiting for another noise. It came a few minutes later.
The stairs creaked. If I hadnât been straining to hear I wouldnât have noticed the sound. A creak, a pause, another creak, barely audible, and then a soft shuffling sound as though someone were moving down the hall outside my bedroom. Soft blue-black shadows glided over the walls, and I could see the outlines of furniture, the silvery blur of the mirror. A ray of moonlight touched the side of the large white wardrobe. Scrappy stirred in his sleep and nestled deeper under the covers. I listened, every fiber of my being taut with concentration, but there was only silence now.
This is utter nonsense, I told myself harshly. There had been nothing in the courtyard, and there had been no footsteps on the stairs. Yes, I had
I eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep, and it was much later when I awoke with a start. Something had awakened me. I had been having a nightmare, and then some noise or movement had jerked me abruptly into consciousness. Every nerve was taut. I might never have slept. The room was cold. I was shivering. Icy fingers seemed to stroke my bare arms and shoulders. I had left the window open as I always did, and the night had grown colder, but that wasnât why I shivered.
My heart was pounding. I was paralyzed with fear. Why? What had caused it? It was very real, holding me in its grip. I had been dreaming of a dark alley filled with fog, and there were footsteps, drawing nearer, and then there was a loud clattering noise, as though a lid had been knocked off the top of a trash bin. The noise had awakened me. I was certain it hadnât been part of my dream.
The bedclothes rustled at the foot of the bed. Something gripped my knee tightly. My blood seemed to turn to ice, and I donât know why I didnât scream. Scrappy mewed sleepily, moved across my legs and curled himself up on the covers.
âYou silly cat!â I exclaimed. âYou frightened me half to death.â
I shook my head and smiled at my own foolish alarm as Scrappy nestled up under a fold of the counterpane and gave a sleepy grunt. The curtains billowed, making a stiff rustling noise. I got up to close the window, moving carefully so as not to disturb the kitten. Pushing the curtains aside, I reached up to pull the window down, and then I peered into the courtyard below. My hand froze on the window frame. I stood very, very still. The fear returned, sharper than before, pressing all around me.
The courtyard was dark, tall gray walls closing around it, thick tendrils of fog filling it with a moving, swirling whiteness. Something moved behind the cover of fog. I was certain of it. Behind the mist there was a dark form, barely visible, moving stealthily toward the house. I strained to listen, and over the whisper of wind it seemed I heard footsteps on the flagstones. Wind stirred the fog. Tendrils broke and parted, revealing a section of the wall, part of the ground. I saw a pair of legs, the hem of a cloak, then whiteness floating cloudlike, obscuring everything.
There was nothing more. I must have stood at the window for at least five minutes, peering into that basin of fog, the cold night air stroking flushed cheeks and blowing wisps of hair against my temples. I had imagined it all. Of course. It had been my imagination. I had awakened in the middle of the night, shaken by a nightmare, my nerves on edge, receptive to the suggestions of an overwrought mind. I closed the window and sat on the edge of the bed, frowning, trying to convince myself that I hadnât seen anything.
The house was silent. The room was still cold. I knew I should get back under the covers and try to go back to sleep, but I couldnât. I sat there waiting. I realized all at once that that was what I was doing: waiting for another noise. It came a few minutes later.
The stairs creaked. If I hadnât been straining to hear I wouldnât have noticed the sound. A creak, a pause, another creak, barely audible, and then a soft shuffling sound as though someone were moving down the hall outside my bedroom. Soft blue-black shadows glided over the walls, and I could see the outlines of furniture, the silvery blur of the mirror. A ray of moonlight touched the side of the large white wardrobe. Scrappy stirred in his sleep and nestled deeper under the covers. I listened, every fiber of my being taut with concentration, but there was only silence now.
This is utter nonsense, I told myself harshly. There had been nothing in the courtyard, and there had been no footsteps on the stairs. Yes, I had
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