A square of moonlight shone from the skylight to the floor. Fiona was curled up on her bed, arms around legs, swaying back and forth. She couldn’t calm her breathing. She could barely swallow, her mouth was so dry. She hadn’t thought to bring any water. In the morning, she would grab everything she needed. This was her shelter and the storm would pass. That’s why she chose this room. She could see the sky. She would know when it was safe.

Her phone was sunken into the duvet beside her feet. It still held some battery, if she needed it. But who would she call? What could she tell them that wouldn’t curse their lives too? Maybe the Guards could come and take her somewhere safe until her parents returned. They could lock her up in a cell for all she cared, so long as there was someone to stand between her and the one that stalked her relentlessly.

Fiona tried to focus on anything else. She pictured the downstairs rooms in perfect darkness. The kitchen’s cold granite countertop. Unopened letters scattered across the floor from when she had run indoors. That vague but welcoming scent that hung in the hallway, where her mum burned candles throughout the year, never expecting any visitors but keeping their wicks lit all the same.

Even if she had been followed, how could it possibly find her here? There were no lights. No sounds. Nothing to lead it to her.

She reached for the phone. Maybe Tom was still okay. He had seen it that first night too. Fiona hadn’t spoken to anyone else since then. She had carried the truth like a poisoned chalice, careful not to spill a drop. She wanted to call him again, if only to hear he was okay, that she was overreacting. But what if the phone was how it found her? If speaking kept the curse alive, then silence could be the key to lifting it. There was so much she didn’t understand.

Fiona’s tired eyes returned to the floor. They weighed too much to look any higher. She stared at that silver tile of moonlight in the centre of the room. Her heart contracted; its pace quickened. Something was wrong. But through the depths of her exhaustion, the revelation was slow to rise.

And then, finally, she saw it – the dark shape framed within the light on the floor.

Terror snapped the air from her lips. The phone creaked as her fingers clamped around it. Somehow, fumbling blind, she called for help.

The dial tone sounded only once.

‘Emergency services. What is your location and the service you need?’

Fiona’s eyes lifted to the skylight, to that which blocked out the moon and the stars, and the hope of ever seeing her parents again.

1

The doorbell chimed.