The call ended, the line going dead before Mark had a chance to say anything. The voice had been robotic – non-human – with no hint of tone about it at all. He took the phone from his ear, as the phone went to black. He checked the call log, but all that showed was PRIVATE NUMBER, which meant he couldn’t call it back.

He checked over his shoulder, staring into the darkness of the fields in the distance. Looking for something that didn’t fit with the rest of what he could see. He needn’t have bothered. He could barely see further than the road.

Mark had that feeling of someone watching him again. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on what the voice had said.

He moved quickly without further thought, dropping to his knees and swiping his hands at the foot of the door. There was no mat, of course, but he was hoping there was something that he could lay his hands on. He couldn’t see what he was doing, considered walking back to the car and finding his torch, before remembering his phone had one of its own.

Mark switched it on and began sweeping the floor, looking for something that didn’t belong. He found it quickly – a triangular structure, propped up against the brick to the side of the door. Unless you were looking for it, you wouldn’t notice it, blending into the background, grass growing up and running up its side to mask it further. He grabbed it, moving it aside, underneath a key.

He picked it up, scrambling to his feet and holding his phone in one hand, slid it into the lock on the handle. It took a few seconds before he worked out how to open it up: pushing it in and then twisting the entire handle. Mark heard something click, then the door was rising up, the bottom half extending towards his legs. He stepped back, grasped the bottom of the door and pushed it up.

The smell hit him first.

It wasn’t a foreign aroma. He’d experienced it before, several times. Part of his brain snapped into focus and reminded him what it was, while the other part tried to ignore his senses.

He could smell death.

Mark lowered his head, the phone in his hand now pointing the light towards the floor. He was too late. His legs turned to jelly, as a million butterflies took flight inside his abdomen.

He was too damn late.

A guttural noise rumbled in the back of his throat. The phone in his hand digging into his palms, as sound escaped him. A moan, a scream, a roar.

How was he too late?

Mark blinked into the present, his hands on his knees, a small spotlight shining into the floor behind him. His breaths came in short bursts, loud and filled with anger.