The steady banging awakens her and with eyes closed she listens.
The floorboards are cold beneath her bare feet.
Goosebumps spread across her naked arms and the skin below her nightdress crawls.
A hand on the banister guides her down the stairs, invisible in the gloom, towards the noise. Her clammy hand fumbles inside a drawer until her fingers feel the round barrel of the torch. The ground is flooded with the dim light of the torchbeam and she follows the snaking path through the garden. The banging is louder as she approaches, but now there is no fear: only the numbness. The shed is invisible in the night.
The cold wraps tight around her torso and she does not stop when the torch falters and then dies. She has only the moon as her guide now.
The banging is so intense she can feel her body pulse in time. The torch falls to the ground but she does not watch where it rolls.
She will not need it again.
She opens the door to the shed and feels her bones slacken.
She will not come out.