‘Is that better?’ I say after a minute or two, keeping my eyes on the road.

He doesn’t answer. He’s lost in the story.

‘Thank God for that,’ I whisper, grateful for the silence.

We’re on the edge of the village now. The sky is darkening and I blink as a boxy red-brick building comes into view up ahead on the right. Drawing closer, I see the words ALL HALLOWS painted in black letters on a wooden sign and a man standing outside the church. The vicar. I catch his eye as we pass and a chill flutters through me as I remember the last time I was in a chapel, my arms covered in bruises. I blink the memory away and concentrate on the road ahead. The satnav had told me to follow the road out of the village for three miles, though the words on the note are etched on my memory. The lake will appear right ahead of you. It’s impossible to miss.

The hills rise up on either side, closing in on me like the folded pages of a pop-up book as I follow the narrow road. The sky is dark grey now. Night is coming. There are no houses, no people. No cars pass by. My chest tightens with dull panic and I can feel it rising in my throat. I focus on the soft voice on the CD, describing the wild things roaring their terrible roars, and suddenly I’m six years old again, curled up on the sofa next to my dad as he reads to me the story of a young boy who sailed away.

The memory calms me and I sit up straight and focus on the increasingly bumpy and potholed road. And then, as we reach the crest of the hill, it appears in front of me: a wide expanse of black water. As I draw closer, a dark shadow seems to rise out of the lake and slowly take form, and I see a tall, black stone building with barred windows. This can’t possibly be it, I think, pulling up by the lake. It looks like a prison or one of those asylums they used to lock people away in back in Victorian times. And it’s clear nobody has set foot in it for years – it’s almost completely falling apart. I take the note out of my handbag and read, praying that I’ve taken the wrong turn.

I look out of the window. There’s a sign next to the door but the light is fading and I can’t see what it says. I fold up the note and put it back into my bag.

‘Two minutes, Joe,’ I say, turning round to look at him. He’s fast asleep, his ragged old toy rabbit pressed to his pink cheek.

Careful not to wake him, I gently open the door and step outside. The air is cold and there’s a biting wind. I button up my padded coat and walk towards the building. My stomach twists when I think about that last conversation with her. Everyone said she was unhinged. What if this is all some sick joke?