Memories hounded Ben like a dodged subpoena; that black effigy, so thriftly brushed with light, had appeared even more disjointed than the first sighting. Those arms – skeletally thin and braced by his sides – must have reached down to his damned knees. And those fingers – inhuman in spread and length – were the stuff of nightmares.

Was that it? Had he dreamt of their stalker without realising it?

The bastard must have crawled into his skull whilst he slept. Ben could visualise him running, as if he had seen it with his own eyes. But the man’s stillness on both occasions was indisputable. He had dreamt of him passing through a fog, its mesh of weblike strands aglow in the moonlight. He could hear bones cracking; limbs, jagged in their movements, forcing the stranger forward. Ben was running. But there was nowhere to escape to. The man was gaining on him, his grey form darkening to black as he tore through that crystal mist.

It was a nightmare, that was all. But Ben saw it now as clear as his own reflection. He stared ahead, seeing something where there was nothing, like his Aunt Patricia used to do. Maybe the madness was in his blood, too.

‘It’s like the kid told us,’ Chloe said. ‘You see him three times, remember? Well, now we’ve already seen him twice. And on the third night his big ugly face is at your window.’

‘Chloe,’ he said, calmly as he could, ‘these things don’t exist. It’s just a story.’

It was the same man from the village. But Ben couldn’t water down his conviction in front of her. Doubts and misgivings were par for the course when the questions outweighed the answers.

‘If we see him again, we’ll call the Guards,’ he said. ‘How about that? They can arrest your creeper and put him up in court for harassment.’

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even break a smile. Instead her eyes scrolled down the screen, to the first column about Carol Fortune, printed only a few days after her disappearance.

‘There,’ Chloe said, drawing her finger to the screen. ‘Detective Eamon Barry was in charge of the case. Maybe he’s still around.’

‘Or how about we call Sparling? We can tell him that we’re back and that we’ve nearly finished writing up his report.’

‘Do we have his number?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, I’m sure it’s in that folder he gave us. I’ll give him a call. Once his money is in our pockets, we’ll never have to speak of the Tír Mallachts again, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Chloe replied, crossing her arms, and sinking back into the couch. ‘Call him.’

*