I remember one Halloween when I was about eight years old, my friends dared me into knocking on her door. They taunted me and called me a cissy because I wouldn’t. In the end, full of fear but trying to look confident, I walked up to her front door and knocked. I heard some shuffling about inside and then the door slowly opened to reveal the mad woman standing there before me in her night clothes. Before she could say anything I ran, pausing just long enough to turn and throw a raw egg at her. I only looked back for a second but the memory is burned into me. She stood with raw egg running down her chest and soaking into her clothes. She just looked at me, a tear falling from the corner of one eye. I caught up with my friends and, for a short time, I was a hero in our little world.

The woman with the hole in her head. I can’t remember her real name though I did know it once.

I’m standing at my bedroom window looking out at the back gardens through a crack in the curtain. The woman lives two doors up and I can see into her garden from here. Dad would kill me if he found out that I was watching again, he says that madness rubs off. Well he’s probably right, I must be mad to still be living with my Dad at my age. I sometimes wish that Danny, that’s my younger brother by a year, had taken on the responsibility of looking after Dad. Then maybe I could have had some sort of life. I know it’s selfish especially as Dad brought us up after Mum died giving birth to Danny.

Two minutes to twelve. She’ll be out in a bit, the woman with the hole in her head. I wonder why she does it? Could it be in honour of a lost love? I used to think it was something to do with the moon but now I can’t see any reason for it other than some urge she just can’t resist.

I feel sorry for her in some ill defined way. I imagine her to be lonely; maybe I empathise with her loneliness.

I think I can see some movement in the garden. Yes, here she comes, the ghostly woman with the hole in her head. She walks up to the top of the garden in her night dress, white hair flowing in the cold breeze. The bright moonlight creates an aura around her. She really should put some slippers on, her feet must be like blocks of ice. She stands there at the top of the garden, arms outstretched, head thrown back with her hair hanging down, looking up at the night sky. Then she starts to sing, the sound carries to me.

Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant,
Ar hyd y nos,
'Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant,
Ar hyd y nos.
Golau arall yw tywyllwch,
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch
Teulu'r nefoedd mewn tawelwch,
Ar hyd y nos.

O mor siriol gwen a seren,
Ar hyd y nos,
I oleuo-i chwaer ddae ar en,
Ar hyd y nos.
Nos yw henaint pan ddaw cystudd,
Ond i harddu dyn a'i hwyr dydd,
Rhown ein goleu gwan i'n gilydd,
Ar hyd y nos.

She has an eerily beautiful voice. That’s why I wait up until midnight. All my worries and frustrations melt away when I hear her sing even though I have no idea what the words mean. I feel sure that I recognise the song, but the next morning I can never remember the melody. I really should thank her, even if she won’t understand why, at least I will have done it. She’s getting old and I don’t know how many more nights I’ll be seeing her. I must thank her soon.

Megan, that’s her name. I knew I’d remember it.

As she finishes singing, the woman with the hole in her head turns and heads back for the house, she glances up at the window of the house two doors down, she smiles and says quietly to herself, "Goodnight my little baby, goodnight cariad."

[The song above is a traditional Welsh song titled "Ar hyd y nos". It is included below in its translated form:

All Through The Night

Sleep my love, and peace attend thee
All through the night;
Guardian angels God will lend thee,
All through the night,

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,
Hill and vale in slumber steeping,
I my loving vigil keeping,
All through the night.

Angels watching ever round thee,
All through the night,
In thy slumbers close surround thee,
All through the night,

They should of all fears disarm thee,
No forebodings should alarm thee,
They will let no peril harm thee,
All through the night.

cariad [-au, m.]
(n.) love, affection]