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In the earliest memory etched into my mind, one that has lingered vividly since childhood, I recall a night that left an indelible mark on my young self. It may seem trivial to some, yet its significance will become apparent in due time. The nursery, my private domain within the vast castle, was a spacious room with an imposing oak roof. At the tender age of six, I awoke one night to find the nursery deserted. Neither the nursery maid nor my nurse was in sight, leaving me with a sense of abandonment. Unfamiliar with ghostly tales and fairy lore that often haunt young minds, I felt more annoyed than frightened at being left alone. Just as I was about to voice my discontent with a bout of tears, a lovely face caught my eye—a young lady kneeling beside my bed, her hands gently tucked under the covers.
Her presence, solemn yet comforting, calmed my unease. She caressed me tenderly, lying down beside me with a reassuring smile that lulled me back to sleep. However, my peaceful slumber was abruptly interrupted by a sharp pain in my chest, as if two needles had pierced me simultaneously. Startled, I cried out, prompting the lady to retreat and seemingly vanish under the bed.
Fear gripped me for the first time as I screamed for help. The household rushed to my side, their attempts to soothe me tinged with an underlying anxiety. Despite their efforts to dismiss my account as mere imagination, their pale faces betrayed their concern. The housekeeper’s whispered revelation to the nurse confirmed my fears—the spot beside me was still warm, indicating someone had indeed been there.
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In the aftermath of that eerie night, a servant was stationed in the nursery every night until I reached my teenage years. The incident left me jittery and wary, leading to frequent visits from a doctor whose pallid countenance and antiquated wig did little to ease my discomfort.
Even in the reassuring light of day, I couldn’t shake off the terror that had gripped me. My father’s attempts to console me fell short, as I knew deep down that the spectral visitation was no mere dream—it was a chilling reality that haunted my thoughts.
The nursery maid’s attempt to reassure me, claiming she had been the one beside me in bed and that I must have mistaken her face in my drowsiness, offered some solace. However, her words, echoed by the nurse, didn’t entirely dispel my doubts.
As I reflected on that unsettling night, a memory surfaced—a dignified elderly man in a black cassock, entering the room with the nurse and housekeeper. His presence exuded kindness and wisdom, his face etched with a serene gentleness. He spoke to them briefly and then turned to me, joining my hands together and guiding me in a soft prayer, “Lord hear all good prayers for us, for Jesus’ sake.” Those words stuck with me, becoming a part of my nightly prayers as my nurse instructed.
The image of that old man, with his silver hair and comforting demeanor, remained vivid in my mind. Standing amidst the ancient furnishings of the room, bathed in the dim light filtering through the small lattice window, he knelt down along with the three women. His voice, filled with sincerity, echoed in prayer for what seemed like an eternity. Everything before and after that moment is a blur, shrouded in obscurity, but the scenes of that day remain starkly clear in my memory, like vivid pictures in a darkened gallery.