Daddy, I don't like my bedroom.

A five-year-old child who doesn't want to go to bed.

Put somebody in there.

My dad always used to say, you know, there's no such thing as ghosts.

It's just the lights from the cars driving past the room.

That's what you're seeing, the shadows on the wall.

She heads upstairs reluctantly. On the door of her bedroom

are wooden letters spelling her name, Judith. You knew what you were walking into and it wasn't an empty room.

She opens the door.

The bedroom seems so big. Her teddy bears that should feel comforting are now like

rows of beady eyes. But the moment she dreads is when the light goes off.

You could feel him before you could see him.

As a child that age, you hope the duvet is going to protect you.

Close your eyes.

Count to five.

Hope that he's not there tonight.

And then I would turn round and he would be stood there.

Your first feeling is fear.

But then when he doesn't do anything, and he does have kind eyes,

and he doesn't come near you, and he doesn't try to speak to you or tell you off or do anything,

you just accept that he's there.

You never forget your first ghost.

...