Why do you sleep with the light on? Is it the fear of the bogeyman who crouches in dark dusty corners ready to pounce? Or is it the dread of the hand which, when least expected glides out from under the bed to grab your leg and pull you down, down, down? What causes you when I get up in the night, to ask in a voice full of forboding

“Where are you going?”

Is it the ghastly ghoul which makes you hold me tight, pull me close as though you will never let me go?

You say that you have no recollection of anything bad happening in your childhood. Do I believe you? I don’t know but there is something not right when a grown woman must sleep with the light on. What painted devil do you fear my dear?