Something shifted upstairs. A creak in the building. Almost like someone was up there. Waiting for her. A monster, just biding its time, coming to gobble her up. She thought back to all the monsters she had been scared of when she was a child. The monster under the bed, the monster in the closet, the ghost in the basement of the hotel they used to stay at in Skegness. The monster above her now, in her mind, was all those combined.

She didn’t have time to waste not tapping three numbers. And that meant she definitely couldn’t tap out Robin’s number... Robin... Robin was...? So she just tapped the phone button and saw a name at the top of the recent calls.

Matthew McConnell.

Just a name. She managed to press it. Someone. Anyone. To get help.

She propped the phone against her ear.

Dialing. Dialing for a long time. Crackling. White noise. Of course, she was in a basement. No signal, or very little. And then, “Hello...”

“Hello,” she whispered harshly.

“...who...this...?”

“Matthew...McConnell?”

“...yes, who is...?”

“It’s me, Sam.”

“Sam...?”

“Sam Ferringham. Please help me. Oh God.”

“...who...?”

She could barely hear him. She needed to tell him where she was. She strained her head up to see any landmarks. Then she remembered she was inside. So, anything that could tell him where she was. But she couldn’t move her head far, before something in her neck cracked. She screamed in pain and stopped. She was looking above the fireplace, as far as she could go, and two monsters looked down at her.

“There’s...a black hound...”

“What are you...about?”

“A black hound...and a horse head.”

“A black...and...horse...what?”

“The...whoever is up there...the horse head...is coming back.” She mangled the sentence but didn’t have the strength to put it back together.

“Are you in danger?”

“Find him...find Robin Ferringham...if...ever...”

“What?”

“In trouble.” She meant to say, I’m in trouble. She wanted Robin. She needed Robin. Now she knew. Robin was her love. Why had she ever left him, to go away and work? Why hadn’t she spent more time with him? That was what she would truly come to regret.

She couldn’t focus on the conversation. Did she even know if it was going the way she was thinking? “Wait, Clatter... Clatteridges, 7:30 p.m. 18th August 1996!” Why did she say that? What did that have to do with anything? It was like she had split into two different people. The one acting and the one thinking. And the one acting was operating at double the speed of the one thinking.

Wait!

“Hello?”

The voice at the other end. But she heard something. A new sound from above. A door opening.

She ended the call.

Door. And then creaking. Staircase. She pressed the phone into her hand so it wasn’t visible.