The nearly 5 year old is in bed. Sick to the stomach. A poor soul, jealous today of his baby sisters robust health. Asleep, the pair, on opposite sides of the house - monitors linking their quiet breathing to our own. Guardian angels, who tell of a bad dream or a 3am cry for milk.
They help me sleep, these yellow radio lights, in a room where my boy is two staircases away, across stone walls two feet thick. When we first moved here he was one and half, the baby girl a dream. We received - in those early months - a series of letters so bizarre and rambling, that they almost provided entertainment despite the malicious and disturbing manner in which they were sent. A body, a secret and a watchful eye - the product undoubtedly of an overactive imagination and an unquiet mind.
We know not - for sure - who the writer was, but the police asked questions and the letters stopped. Forgotten now, in a house where I have never felt afraid, which has a welcome and a warmth within its very walls. The writer, haunted by some personal cause, created their own demons. I believe in ghosts - but they are not here. We are quiet these nights - as others have been centuries before - unless a small sick boy or a hungry babe should disturb us in our sleep... x