‘Should I change anything about what the girl said to us?’ Ben asked.

‘Why would you?’ Chloe replied without looking up for her screen. ‘It’s perfectly creepy as it is.’

‘I don’t know. It sounds very childish or something. Will I keep the uh-oh?’

‘If you remove the uh-oh,’ she said, staring at him now, ‘I’ll never talk to you again.’

The creeper is more than a superstition to the people of Tír Mallacht. Its collective belief – and the effects of such – has limited their social and working lives to the daylight hours. Each family retires to their home come nightfall, bringing with them all they need to abide indoors until dawn. Their reasons are, like all facets of their community, guarded. However, one can assume that the creeper’s nocturnal movements are responsible. Their acceptance of this communal curfew hints at the superstition being exceptionally old, so ingrained in their lifestyle that it is respected without question or complaint, as if there is no alternative. Its foundations are not built upon worship or autocratic ruling, but fear.

‘Would you find those wooden window hatches anywhere else in the country?’ Ben asked.

‘Maybe here and there, but they wouldn’t be as secure as the ones in Tír Mallacht. Those things were bolted down.’

Although window panels can be found on dwellings throughout the country, in Tír Mallacht they are a staple feature of every cottage. However, whereas the function of these hatches elsewhere was to forfeit the elements and secure warmth on cold nights, here they are a means of security. Their locks are designed to keep something out, most likely the ill-defined creeper entity. Given the size of these apertures, it would be impossible for anything larger than a small animal to enter. And so, it would seem that it is the very sight of the creeper that they wish to avoid.

‘Jesus,’ Ben sighed, drawing his hands down his face, ‘I hope Sparling buys all this. I’m basing this entire report on what that little kid told us in thirty seconds.’

‘Uh-oh,’ Chloe replied, winking at him. ‘Embellish, Benny Boy. You historians are masters of fluffing things up.’

Ben’s internal battery had switched to power-saving mode, restricting his vision to that jaundiced hue that was everywhere he looked. He couldn’t blink or wipe it away, and any moisture in the corners of his eyes stung like vinegar.

‘On second thought, can we take a break from this?’ he asked, pointing towards the bulb hanging from the ceiling.

‘The lemony light? Yeah, it gets a bit surreal after a while. Come on, we’ll take a breather in the sitting room.’