Why would you tell a five-year-old such a messed up tale? Ever since the memory of my fifth

birthday came back to me, this is the question I've kept asking myself, but I don't have the answer.

I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised, given the other stories Grandma told me when I was little,

the one about Mr Longfingers, for instance instance and the secret of the special knock I really shouldn't be surprised at all

What follows is a memory from the day I turned five

I must have been repressing that day for years because it's taken weeks of therapy for me to unlock it. Grandma, will you tell me a story before bed?

She was halfway to the bedroom door when my word stopped her.

I didn't want her to go.

Grandma had just tucked me in and turned off my bedside lamp and I suddenly felt afraid.

Partly, it was the darkness of my bedroom.

The shadows were so thick I could barely make out my stuffed toys sitting in a row on top of my dresser, but mainly it was my new birthday present.

The present Grandma had got me.

It wasn't my main present. That was the back of monsters in my pocket toys

I'd ripped open downstairs. No, this was an extra present, a secret present.

I... extra present, a secret present. I hated it. Even in the dark, I could see its shadowy outline on my bedside table. The thing gave me the creeps.

A story? Well, what kind of story would you like to hear?

It was a silly question because Grandma only ever told one kind of story, the scary kind, but because I was already a bit freaked out. I said something I wouldn't normally have done.

Nothing too scary, Grandma.

Grandma raised her eyebrows at me.

Not too scary?

I shook my head. Not too scary.

I shook my head. She leaned over and switched my bedside light back on,

...