He ran his hands over the door, then pushed on it. The room beyond was pitch-black, as though the door opened into nothingness. He scrabbled in his pockets for his phone, pulled it out and switched on the torch function. Why hadn’t the girl turned on the lights?

A beam of light illuminated a dusty table and cabinets, with dirty plates on both. Robin swung the light around to see an oven and fridge. This was a kitchen. The cooker had pots and pans littered over the stove, and there seemed to be a thick layer of dust over it. Dust particles danced around in the flashlight. Everywhere seemed to be incredibly dirty, as if no one had been there in a decade. In fact, the only thing that seemed to be clean was the fridge-freezer. It was gleaming white and practically shone in the light.

He stepped into the kitchen and was conscious that as soon as he let the door go, it was going to swing shut. He did it and was plunged into utter darkness, apart from the flashlight. There was silence. No, there was a small sound, a rhythmic clicking. It was inconsistent—sometimes it was slow; sometimes it was fast; sometimes it was barely there at all.

The kitchen opened into another room and he made his way around the table to see where it led. He slipped on something on the floor, and pointed his torch down to see it was an old copy of the Marsden Chronicle. He bent to pick it up, saw that it was extremely soggy and decided against it.

He rounded the table and pointed his light into a long hallway. It seemed to go on forever, past the flashlight’s reach at least, but the light did hit on a slightly ajar door to the side. From the crack of the open door, although incredibly faint, it looked like there was a small strip of blue light.

Finally—some sign of life. Some sign that the girl was here at least.

He willed his legs to carry him into the hall, and closer to that blue light. The click-clacking sound grew louder as he inched down the hall, but as he came to the door, it stopped.

He could feel the electricity in the air.

The light seemed manufactured, artificial.

The sound started up again.

He reached out to the door and, with one great push, flung it open. The blue light flooded the hall and he reached up an arm to shield his eyes.

He blinked away sunspots and lowered his arm as his eyes refocused. The electricity in the air was no mistake—the room was filled with electrical equipment. Computer towers lined the walls and the floor was a mess of interlocking cables, weaving in and out of each other. The server towers were practically pulsing with life.