I lowered the flannel. Deadly and I looked at each other. He didn’t move a leg. His stringy bedroom hung above his head in the corner of the ceiling. There were no dead flies in there. I wondered if he was hungry. If he was hungry, he would be even more tempted to bite a chunk out of me.

I raised the flannel again. My hand shook. I took a step closer, weapon ready in case he attacked.

With a squeal I leapt past him out of the room and ran into my bedroom.

Heart slowing, I stood and stared at the centre of the curtains. If I unpicked the curtains, Mother would see what I’d done next time she came into my room. But I had to know.

I pulled a yellow doll dress out of my wardrobe and laid it on my desk. Trying to steady my trembling hands, I took hold of the centre of the curtains and began to snip through the very centre stitch. There were a good fifty stitches holding the curtains together. I cut open the first one and wiped sweat from my forehead. Good. One down, tons to go. I snipped through the next and the next, biting my lip, struggling to keep from shaking. Every few seconds I glanced at the door, certain Mother would rush in.

With five stitches snipped, the curtains still revealed nothing. Each curtain kissed the other, protecting me from what lay behind. Unsteadily, I placed the nail scissors on my desk and picked up the yellow dress, wrapping it around my hands. I took a breath, shuffled my body to the side out of the path the sunlight would take when I parted the small unpicked space in the curtains. If there was no wooden board behind the material I would be subjecting myself to real light. My heart pounded. I inhaled, exhaled then pulled the curtains apart. My heart sank to my feet. Disappointment curdled with fear. There was no glass, just wood. Mother had made certain I was protected – or unable to get away.

My last thought rocked me to my core. I let go of the curtains, grateful to see them fall back together. You couldn’t even tell I’d picked some of the stitches out. Mother would only notice if she inspected them closely, and why would she? They had held fast for my whole life. They were a permanent feature of my bedroom. My life. My short, short life.

I wondered if Clarabelle’s room was the same. Mother must have boarded up her window too. That must have been why she had spent so much time in the spare room prior to Clarabelle’s arrival. And I had heard banging when she’d been in there, I remembered.

Something in my mind clicked. My eyes went wide. My tummy lurched.