Before I realize it my week is over.
In what seems like the blink of an eye, my island story is told.
I make my bed one final time and close the door of the room with it’s window that looks across the bay of sleeping boats at low tide and its ghostly presence at night.
I never did get around to writing about my need to check each room, cupboard and wardrobe before I went to bed.
I am not usually scared of night time. I wild camp without a second thought and sleep in a small tent with no fear. Darkness never bothers me, I have often cycled home alone with just my bicycle lamp to show me the way.
Yet, though this house is in the middle of the village and there is no crime on the island, I felt uneasy each night I spent in it. My unease coming from something inside the house rather than outside.
Of all the rooms, the bedroom opposite the one I chose to use, caused me the most anxiety.
My instinct was to close its door but to keep my one open so that I could keep a watchful eye.
But what I would do if I woke in the morning to find it open or worse, woke in the night to see the door handle slowly turning, I had no idea.
Eventually of course I fell asleep each night and in the morning all was well.
And in the end, the only night I was ever disturbed was when leaving the window open, the zing of a mosquito in my ear made me shoot out of bed.
After a ridiculously lengthy chase I managed to squish the intruder between my shoe and the wall.