The man left staring in what zigzags remained of the mirror was less than human, raw, a creature still maturing. Flecks of the farmer’s skin peppered his face. The look was carnivorous. Untameable. The Crow loved it. He wanted to remain there, staring at his image, until the remnants of the farmer were absorbed into his own flesh, becoming one, but there was a loose end. An unanticipated complication.

Grudgingly, he left the fractured reflection and took the stairs two at a time. The upper floor of the property consisted of four rooms: three bedrooms and a bathroom, he guessed. He opened the door to his left first, kicking it open, keeping his left hand free and his right hand on his gun. That was the bathroom, shower curtain pinned helpfully back, the only cupboards too small for even a young child to fit into.

The next door was hiding a room used to store boxes, suitcases, old chairs and a fake Christmas tree, still bedecked with tinsel that had long since lost its lustre. The Crow moved swiftly to the wardrobe and pulled its doors open. Ageing clothes tumbled out onto him before falling to the floor. He let out a small, high laugh that sounded nothing like his normal self. It was a nervous laugh and he hated it.

Striding to the next room, he stood still in the open doorway and looked around himself. The bedspread was floral and neatly arranged. There were flowers on the windowsill. Not one single dirty item of clothing was strewn on the floor. Not one. And there was a mirror on the far wall, opposite the bedhead.

That was wrong. What use would a man with such life-changing scarring have with a mirror, last thing at night, first thing in the morning, always reminding him? Unless The Crow had failed to do his work properly this time, and that was unthinkable. Perhaps the slammed door he’d heard wasn’t the wind. Perhaps there really had been someone here, listening to his voice. Had she crept downstairs and seen his face? Had she already called the police? This bedroom, the whole house, he realised too late, had a woman’s touch all over it. From the flowery bedspread to the apple pie, from the sparkling bathroom to the mirror on the wall.

‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ he sang, opening the door to the built-in cupboard and grinning into the void.

Sure enough, there amid the thick jumpers and winter coats were a few women’s shirts and jeans. Stepping inside, he ripped at the hanging clothes and dashed the folded items from the shelves. Nothing. He checked under the bed and was finally convinced. Not so much as a stray sock or a ball of dust. This was not the farmer’s handiwork.

That left one last room.