I feel the cold air from outside breezing into the room, but only for a moment, as another creak from the window cuts it short. She’s inside, and she’s closed the window behind her. I can’t see, and I can’t smell from beneath the CPAP mask, so I hope that means my hearing is temporarily enhanced. I need to know what she’s doing in my room, and I need to be ready to move, in case she decides to try to murder me or, more likely, knock me out. I remember when we were on the coach driving into Crater Lake and Dale ran out in front of us, covered in blood. They’d attacked him; bashed him on the head so he’d fall unconscious. It worked.

After a few seconds of painful silence, I hear 158 her start to move. There’s a sound like peeling Velcro heading towards me, but it’s not coming across the floor, cos apparently that wouldn’t be creepy enough. She’s climbed back up the wall and is stalking across the ceiling, slowly and carefully. She doesn’t want to wake me.

The noises stop right above my head. There’s another silence where I imagine she’s watching me. My whole body wants to shudder, but I focus on keeping my muscles relaxed, on breathing slowly. Picturing her above me, staring down with that creepy head tilt she’s started doing is not helping me to be calm, so I try to picture peaceful things: turquoise oceans and summer skies; leaping dolphins and Christmas cookies. There’s another peeling noise, like unsticking a plaster, and then quiet. I’m desperate to open my eyes to see what’s happening, but I will them shut, imagining there are smooth, cool pebbles gently holding the lids closed. With the dolphins and the pebbles, I’m actually almost relaxed, and I make a note to do this next time I can’t sleep cos my mind is too busy. Just as I’m finishing the thought, I feel something on my face, and it’s lucky I’m totally chilled cos I manage not to leap out of bed 159 screaming. It’s only a tickle, like feathers brushing across my skin, but the urge to brush them away is freaking massive – like wanting to scratch a scab you’ve been told to leave alone or it will bleed out all over your designer tracksuit. What could it be? I picture Mum again, hanging off the ceiling like a creepy-ass chandelier, and realise – it must be her hair, falling down and touching my face. It could only reach, though, if she was standing vertically – her feet on the ceiling, but her hands not. So if her hands are loose, what is she doing with them?