Around the same age (four or five) I lived in a small cabin with my mom.
My mother would spend some time during the evening with me, then when night fell she'd leave and tell me she'd be right back.
She would never come back. I used to stay and wait for her, sometimes I'd cry hoping she'd hear me.
Usually I wouldn't be able to stand it. I would run through the dark up the dirt path, through the machine shop and into the incense factory where my Dad lived.
This was where the kitchen, refrigerator, and general food stock was. There was also a television, which seemed to be the thing that held my mother against her word.
When I went up to the factory, I would always run.
I was terrified of the dark, and a flashlight just made more shadows for my imagination to alter into gremlins and ghouls.
So I ran, as fast as I could to get to the next safe place.
Once I arrived, my mother would always give me a look of confusion, as if to ask why I was scared and out of breath.