He resurfaced bearing the iron casket. Will wrested on his shoes and tried to keep pace with his brother, who was already unlatching the gate at the rear of the yard. The creek was positively roaring as Will struggled to stay at Dylan’s heels. The rain was intensifying, portending another storm.

“Where are we going?” he cried.

“Not far,” Dylan replied. “I’ll put it back. I’ll make it right.”

Together they traipsed the back of Baintree Common. In boyhood Will had played endlessly along these leafy banks, both with friends and with his brother. Though the housing complex had not appreciably changed over the years, its present aura seemed threatening.

“Here it is!” declared Dylan. “Help me with the fence.”

“Whose house is this?” Will rasped as he gripped one of the fence boards. He watched his brother reverentially slip the woven coffin through the gap and then painfully wriggle himself through. Will followed. It was obvious that quizzing Dylan was futile.

The backyard of this home was far better maintained than that of his boyhood home. Will halted when he saw Dylan approach the sliding glass door. He waited to see who would answer his brother’s rapping.

But Dylan did not knock; instead he set the casket down on the lawn and yanked at the door, throwing his weight into the task until the lock gave.

Aghast, Will began to feel as though he was watching a movie rather than experiencing the present. He saw his brother calmly take up the casket and slip past the ruined door. Panicked that he might be spotted, Will found himself following.

The strange house was immaculate in both upkeep and solitude. Standing in the kitchen, staring at the stainless-steel appliances and the polished floor, caused Will to suddenly become heartsick for his mother.

Dylan was noisily moving through the lower chambers. Will rushed to the descending stairwell. Once there he made note of a trio of framed photographs that hung in the main landing. Wedding photos, enlarged and richly coloured. The groom was a stout man with a crew-cut hairstyle and slender glasses balanced on a slightly bent nose. The bride was blonde and rather pretty.

Will’s hand felt for the stair’s railing. He gripped it and forced himself to breathe.

The bride in the photographs was Julie.

Will hissed his brother’s name, for his throat allowed for nothing louder.

“I think it came from here,” Dylan called back. “Come see.”

Will’s every step was reticent. His heart was thudding loudly. His saliva tasted of metal.

The chamber in which Dylan stood was scarcely broader than a storage closet. An old-fashioned laundry tub stood against a wall built of cinderblocks with yellowing mortar. A cold draft lifted tufts of cobwebs from the grey brickwork. They lapped at the air like spectral tongues. The tiny room was uncharacteristically neglected and decayed compared to the rest of the house.