I listened, trying to push the sound of my heartbeat into the background, and thought I could hear movement – perhaps the scattering of stones underfoot – on the opposite side of the barn. Moving parallel to the wall, I retreated to the next doorway along. In the darkness, I thought I could make out a tractor, or maybe a plough, a tiny dusting of light falling against one of the wheel arches, and then the clouds thinned, the moon making its escape, and suddenly everything had a deep, lead-grey outline.

I started to move, making use of the fact that I could see, following the concrete path I’d come in on. At the corner of the building, I stopped again and peered around its edge.

No one was there.

There was ten feet of space between me and the next barn, so I bridged it quickly, passing the old corpse of a harrow and then a pile of tools, lying on the ground, discarded. I stopped again, reached down to grab a shovel, and then the light altered.

The clouds thickened; the moon vanished.

Black.

I listened for any approach, any sign he was close to me or using the sudden switch in light to his advantage. When nothing came back but more silence, I slowly inched the shovel out from the pile.

But I never got the chance to use it.

There was the scuff of a sole against the uneven concrete path and then a fist crunched into the side of my head, releasing my grip on the shovel instantly. I stumbled sideways, my cheek on fire, my ears ringing, and then I was struck again, an attack from the darkness I couldn’t see and couldn’t defend. I staggered off the path, clattering against a rake. It clanged as it fell and hit the concrete, and then I lost my footing and landed hard on the grass. When I looked up, hands in front of me for protection – bracing myself for more – no one was even there: it was just a swathe of black, no shape to it at all.

Fast footsteps.

I dragged myself up on to all fours, turning on my hands and knees, following the sound of him. He was heading back in the direction of the cottage. I heard his feet pounding against concrete, and then the dull thump of the grass.

Clambering to my feet, I switched on the penlight and used it to guide myself out of the maze of barns. I could smell sweat on myself, dirt, manure, could feel blood running from my hairline, but I kept going, ignoring it all, focused entirely on the cottage: all the lights were still on inside and, as I got closer, I could see the front door was open.

Were they still in there?

I hit the final fence, climbed over it and then switched off the penlight.