The Intercessor by Miriam Davison - HTML preview

CHAPTER 1

When I was young, I could never sleep with the wardrobe door open. Every night I religiously checked under my bed for the illusive monster or bogeyman that might be lurking there. Even though I never saw anything, as I turned out my bedroom light, I would run and jump into the middle of my bed. I would secure the blankets under me so nothing could creep in as I slept. Just because I couldn’t see them, it didn’t mean they weren’t there. I was sure I could feel their presence.

Once in my bed, my eyes were always squeezed tight shut. I did not want to see anything from my nightmares, become a reality.  My main fear was catching sight of the trees, silhouetted by the street light onto my ceiling and walls. I had been brave once, and opened my eyes for a short while. I would never make that mistake again. I saw changing shapes as they swayed in the wind. I would have sworn, at that time, under oath, they were morphing into evil creatures. The longer I looked, the shapes took form, mocking me and daring me to watch. Luckily, I shut my eyes before they had fully formed. I thought, if I had not, they would have snatched me away to the dark malevolent place they came from. I was determined never to give them the chance. My fears stayed with me through my younger years, dreading the darkness that was inevitable each night.

 Even during the day, I couldn’t relax and just join in with my peers. I was thought of as weird, and spent most of my school life, on my own. Each time I tried to interact, I would catch sight of something from the corner of my eye, I would snap my head around quickly; but nothing would be there. I would turn back to see the raising of an eyebrow, or the shaking of a head, and the moment had passed. My parents told me I had an over active imagination and the reason things got worse as the day went on; was only because I was getting tired. I tried to believe them, I honestly did. I would spend most of my time in my room or the garden, making up little stories and poems which I saved in a scrap book, and kept it locked in my drawer.