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He didn’t have to turn his head to know it was 2.37 a.m.—the same every night: the nightmare, the waking, and the hopeless attempt to get back to sleep. Outside, the wind moaned like a dying breath, and the frost crept across the windowpane like a web of ice.

 He was floating, imperceptibly, towards the edge of consciousness, twisting and turning in the strange bed – unwilling and unable to stop himself from waking.

Sheets half on, half off, the chill November air inside the isolated cottage made it hard to stay asleep, even with the heating on. The frost made a weird pattern like a spider’s web on the inside windowpane and the wind gently moaned outside, just enough to hear, like a dying breath.

Undoubtedly awake now, Matthew didn’t have to turn his head to know that it was 2.37 am – it was the same every night: the nightmare, then the waking, then the hopeless attempt to get back to sleep.

Sometimes rats crawling over him, other times stumbling and falling from that high, rugged and wild cliff walk into the sea, occasionally a person standing there balefully in the corner of the room: facing the wall, in old-fashioned clothes, sighing, singing, swaying to itself. The frantic pinching himself on the thigh to wake up, the eventual falling asleep again.

Dr Jones said the grief had made his mind hyperactive and he had never stopped reaching a hand out to the other side of the bed, reaching, yearning and praying that Amy would be there again.

Tonight was different though.

A slight touch, or the lack of one, is enough to set one off into a spiral. The loneliness like a black chasm or hole, trying to claw your way up the sides to escape, fingernails bloody and raw, arms aching, legs pumping, breathless and meaningless rolled into one. Alone.

He was lying on his back was when he felt it, or at least he thought he did. A finger or thumb gently touch him on the forehead. Someone, something lightly brush his hair from his forehead. Smoothly, calmly but icy cold.

The touch that he had been yearning for, a tear rolling down his cheek, a message or a warning he couldn’t tell. From beyond the… no, he had to pull himself together now, wasn’t that the point of this holiday after all?

Matthew tried to be logical, as he swung his legs out of the bed, reassured by the yellow light seeping in from the bathroom window. He could just make out the old brown dresser, the few rickety chairs and the tall, dusty wardrobe, ancient and tall with a dirty mirror casting a weak reflection.

His ragged breath came in short bursts, and he started to consciously slow his heart rate. Breathe in calm and peace and exhale sadness and stress, just like they taught him to do.

“Ok, Amy… I will be fine,” he murmured to himself, hugging himself across his chest. It was going to be fine. Except.

It was then he saw the shape in the corner. A person. Stood in the corner, with his back to him. From the back, Matthew saw the young man, dressed in brown old-fashioned clothes, head hung low, shoulders heaving as if in tears.

It had become colder and stiller in the room and a strange smell, like rotting meat, had pervaded the room. At least though Matthew wasn’t scared; he started to walk towards the shape, a feeling of compassion and curiosity propelling him forward.

The wind had died outside, and he saw a small skinny rat scurrying under the bed. He touched the shape on the shoulder, and it turned round.

Long greasy hair masked most of his face, but Matthew’s attention was drawn to the long hands gripping something tightly. So tight that the veins were bulging curiously and blood was dripping onto the floor.

Yet, when he looked, the blood wasn’t red, it was a clear, watery substance, with little flecks of black. He prised the fingers open to reveal a small, framed photo – he could barely make a woman’s face. Amy?

He gently reached to part the hair, no resistance offered, he had to see the face. He gasped, swore, eyes wet with a raw realisation.

It was him.