Lauren stays as still as she can. She feels a sense of dread creep into her bones and wants to whisper We need to leave, but her voice is stuck in her throat, the way that can often happen in a bad dream.

She looks down. They are standing in a perfect circle of broken crockery.

Diane grabs Lauren’s arm and pulls her close, switching off the torch.

‘Do you feel all that?’ she says, her voice shaky in the dark. ‘Something is here with us.’

‘I wanna go,’ Lauren whines. ‘It wants us to leave.’

‘But Ann-Marie,’ whispers Diane. ‘If she’s somewhere in here, I have to …’ She jumps as a blast of air makes the door slam again.

Tentatively they make their way around two ground-floor rooms with the torch, pausing now and again as the wind slams through the house, but all they can find are piles of debris, broken crockery and mouldering curtains.

‘Maybe we should try upstairs,’ whispers Diane in the darkened hallway. The staircase has been built side-on from the front door.

Lauren clutches Diane’s arm as she points the torch up the staircase, but the floorboards are rotten and begin to disappear, further towards the first floor. Then the staircase stops altogether. Still at the foot of the stairs, Diane shines a light in a hole in the roof above, catching the flutter of wings. The two girls jump. They flatten themselves against the staircase wall, facing the door. Lauren needs the bathroom.

‘Bats,’ Diane whispers. She stops and moves her hand around the wall of the wooden staircase. ‘There’s a …’ Lauren sees Diane is tracing her hand over a join in the wall. ‘There’s a hinge!’ hisses Diane.

Lauren touches Diane’s arm. ‘We should go home. Don’t—’ she whispers, shaking her head. ‘I don’t—’ She can’t finish the sentence.

‘She could be …’ Diane’s eyes are wide. ‘In the wall?’ She traces the outline of a door. Placing her fingers by the skirting board, she feels it starting to open.

It is much thicker and heavier than expected, with some kind of foam padding lining the inside. The space is like a small broom cupboard, with nothing inside except an ancient bucket, a mouldy rug and a pair of old work boots that look oddly familiar.

‘This is weird,’ says Diane, shining the torch along its bare walls.

They notice a dripping sound and the air feels damp inside. Diane points to the bare ground. The wind whistles low. Lauren looks closer and sees the rug is partially covering an outline of a square. When they lift it up, there is a handle in the middle. Diane pulls at it, and Lauren tells her to stop, but she opens it up and shines the torch into the black pit below.