Berthe had been happy to allow her superficial self to steer her. Life was much steadier this way; the lulling pattern of chores and family and rest and church on Sundays. But her latent self was forever giving hints of itself, teasing her with not only its grand scope but also how inextricably bound to her it was. Berthe could feel it stirring at the base of her spine, at the back of her skull; an iceberg showing glimpses of its drowned base when the waters are tossed. Its influence upon her had become so strong that in her private diary Berthe had begun to refer to this second self as ‘the Master.’

Today, as she pedalled over the mud, the Master felt nearer than it ever had before. When she spotted the oak with its strange nail, Berthe was convinced that it was the Master who’d led her to this spot.

The blacksmith’s nail had appeared to Berthe peripherally at first, insinuating itself into her field of vision, faintly but persistently, the way haints are rumoured to appear to unlucky folk in these parts. She slowed her bike and turned her head to better study the jutting black thing. The nail (which she first mistook for a sailor’s marlinspike, akin to her great-grandfather’s, which still hung by the chimney to ward off Hearth-Eaters; angry spirits who are said to crawl down the chimneys of unprotected homes and devour all family ties) had been driven into the trunk.

Everything about the scene made Berthe morose. The oak was still weeks away from budding, so its naked limbs appeared arthritic and feeble. The way the nail had been plunged in suggested something sinister.

She stared intently for a time. Her shallow self knew that it was best to leave things as one found them, but the presence of the Master was welling up inside her, filling her, washing away all the internal fences Berthe had always relied upon to compartmentalize her life. The Master was rapidly becoming her all.

Entranced, Berthe was able to watch with icy detachment as her physical body dismounted the bicycle, marched to the tree, and quickly pulled the nail free. It popped out with such ease that for a moment Berthe was shocked by this hidden reserve of might. Only after she’d deposited the chunky black peg into the pocket of her trousers and had begun to pedal away did it occur to her that the nail may have been there not to punish, but to keep something contained…

Something that had helped her pry the nail loose.

Something awful.

Berthe’s stomach felt foul and she feared she might pass out. ‘What have I done?’ she thought.