I write these lines now, anxious and awake, as I await the elusive grasp of sleep. It was nearly three when I was roused from slumber, a fear so profound it seemed to chill my very being. The room lay dark and heavy around me. Silence prevailed, punctuated only by the gentle breath of my cats and the wind, mournful and unrelenting, as it beat against the window. This old house, with its creaks and moans, more times than not stirs me awake, yet still, my mind will run wild in the night until terror takes hold.
With a feeling I cannot quite name, I went to my window. The moon, hidden by clouds and towering trees, allowed just enough light to illuminate the field that stretched from my home to the forest's edge. To my relief, I spied a family of deer quietly grazing. These creatures, so quick to scare, brought me comfort with their presence. When they are out of sight, I am left to wonder what might have scared them off. I find myself staring into shadows, pondering morbid thoughts until they return, and I can find sleep once more.
My home, nestled within an old overgrown forest rich with memories, feels far from a neighbor or friendly face. Nights can be a lonely vigil. My dear husband, often consumed in his study until the early mornings, remains there rather than risk waking me. He knows of my restless nights and doesn’t wish to worsen them. Thus, it is myself and our cats, together in a room, waiting for the dawn.
As I write this, I can still feel the atmosphere of the night, a tangible presence in itself. The very air seems to whisper secrets of the past, and the wilds outside my window feel both beautiful and foreboding. Each night in this old house is a journey into the unknown, guided only by the fleeting comforts of the familiar.
I shall attempt once more to find sleep, with the hope that committing these thoughts to paper has calmed my mind. The deer in their meadow, the wind at my window, and the shadows of this ancient place continue to haunt my thoughts.
