Image: c.1800. wooden prosthetic hand
Mum announced that for our family holiday we had rented an old house that had a history of things that go bump in the night.
The thought of a relaxing week away from the hustle and bustle of our normal lives went out the window as we looked about and contemplated the coming first evening with trepidation.
We all went to bed anticipating something that night. Around midnight the hairs on the back of my neck rose sharply when I realised there was something touching my arm.
It was a terrible moment I wanted to scream but couldn’t, wanted to run but my legs refused to move.
The scratching on my arm was real, I knew there was something there, I put my hand on it and felt the cold wooden fingers, wrap themselves around my own hand tightly.
Unable to pull away I finally screamed, waking the entire household bringing mum, dad, my brother all-rushing into my room.
They stood around my bed looking at me as I huddled trembling under my blankets, my hands clasped around the left hand of my wooden doll Jemima.