The imaginary friend who helped me through my darkest time
<p><em><strong>Beverly Roberts enjoys writing and has belonged to few writer's groups in Cairns. Over the years, she has written for the local Cairns Post newspaper, doing book and theatre reviews, as well as for the local Rondo Theatre. As family has always played a big part of her life, she loves writing about her family.</strong></em></p>
<p>I was trying hard to learn how to live alone. Days were okay, I just hated nights. Always have done. Used to wander into my parents’ bedroom. Sometimes even sleepwalked there. Which made them as frightened as I already was.</p>
<p>So, now I’m having to accept being alone at night. Night-time, when most house lights have gone out and the curlews cry, I stay awake as long as possible, then retire to bed with a book. Windows are closed and curtains drawn, until it really is time to sleep. Finally, turn the light off, creep out of bed, pull back curtains and open windows, all in the dark. The last window is about a metre from the bed.</p>
<p>I just can’t walk there. I know… I know… that under the bed is a dismembered human hand waiting to grab me. But I fool it every time. I take a mighty leap from the window and land on the bed. The hand doesn’t get me! Aaaahhhh.</p>
<p>It happened night after night. Often I fear that my leap might be off-centre and I’ll land on the floor. Then what? Broken leg? The Hand around my throat? What can I do?</p>
<p>After months of this horror, while doing my usual thing of opening every door to see if there is a “someone” there, I pull open the toilet door and, this night, there is someone there.</p>
<p>I am fixed to the spot. It’s a well-dressed gentleman, pin-striped suit, collar and tie, just sitting on the toilet (lid down, of course), hands resting on his knees.</p>
<p>“Hello,” he says, in a gentle, but manly voice, “I’ve been waiting for you.”</p>
<p>I gape!</p>
<p>“What’s your name?” I ask. “Matthew” is the answer. “I’m here to take care of you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, thank you.” I turn off the light, shut the door and head for bed. Am I mad?</p>
<p>And so this happens every night. Same door, same Matthew, same words. I begin to tell friends (and sometimes, strangers). They look at me oddly, but seem to accept my story. Why not? Matthew has become my friend and hero.</p>
<p>One night, same as any other, I open the toilet door. Matthew is not there. No more Matthew! What will I do?</p>
<p>I mull over this and suddenly realise that, for the last few nights, The Hand has not been under the bed either.</p>
<p>Now I understand. Matthew was there to protect me. Once The Hand was gone, he knew that his job was done.</p>
<p>I am rather sad to have him leave, but understand that there are other frightened people like me, who might also need his calm watchfulness.</p>
<p>This was all about four years ago and I haven’t thought about The Hand since. I do, however, sometimes think of Matthew, and wonder how he is getting on.</p>
<p>Me? I’m getting on fine, thanks. Life has picked up. No more creepy nights. Just to bed with a book, light off, down I go. And all is well. But it was good to have that true friend, when he was needed.</p>
