As I stand there, looking into the darkness, a strange sensation comes over me. It’s like tiny needles piercing my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut and make a silent wish that all will be okay, that nothing terrible will greet me on the other side. Opening my eyes, I look into the blackened doorway. The silence is suffocating. I should get the hell out of here right now. Drive Joe away from this. But where would I go? There’s no option. I take a deep breath, glance quickly behind me to check that the car is still there, then slowly step inside.

The smell that hits me is a fetid, animal scent, a mix of shit and straw. I close the door behind me then see that there are two bolts on the back, one at the top, the other on the bottom. The sight of those bolts reassures me somewhat. I can lock the door and hide in here, hide from Mark and all my troubles.

Shining the torch ahead of me, I can see that the walls of the hallway are covered in faded yellow wallpaper with the ghost of a flower pattern just about detectable. I scan the walls for a light switch but there is nothing. Pointing the torch to the ceiling, I see that there are no light fittings. My stomach twists as I walk on, trying to contemplate spending the night in this house. My feet make a rustling sound and when I look down I see that the stone floor is strewn with what looks like straw or grass. It smells raw and pungent, like silage. How could anyone have lived in this way, I ask myself, as I lift the torch back to shoulder height and point it ahead of me.

There are three doors leading off the hallway, one in front and one on either side of me. I open the door on the left and step into what I reckon must be a living room of some sort as I can just make out the shape of a sofa under piles and piles of rubbish. As I step closer I see that the ‘rubbish’ is in fact a collection of yellowing newspapers. I pick one up and look at the date: 7 September 2003. The year my dad died. A shiver flutters across my chest as I read the date again, remembering the pain and sadness of that year, then I drop the paper back on to the floor.

There is a fireplace beyond the sofa. As I scan it with my torch I can see that the mantelpiece is cluttered with bits of paper and ancient bottles of antiseptic. Above it is a set of antlers that have been nailed to the wall. They loom out at me ominously. I look down at my feet. It looks like they have been bound in barbed wire but it’s just the twisted shadow of the antlers. To the left of the fireplace are three rickety-looking shelves, piled high with paperback books. I can just about make out some of the titles: The Science of Animal Husbandry, A Farmer’s Almanac, The Turn of the Screw. I pull this one out, remembering it from my A-level English class, and open it up. Inside is a library sticker with a return date stamped on it: 10 January 2005. Long overdue now. The covers are dusty and yellow, and a sour scent hangs about them, like cat pee. I close the book, put it back on the shelf, then slowly make my way out of the room.