I approached the grand entrance and rested my hand on the banister. Dragging my feet up the stairs, I passed through the veils of time as I retraced Middleton’s steps. Had he planned the attack? Or was he lost to the force of Blackhall, turned inward like a cowering child? Newspapers reported that he spent time in his study that night, methodically cleaning his gun. Given his years in the army, he was a good shot.

Taking a left on the grand landing, I approached the old study door, loose on its hinges. In my mind’s eye I caught a glimpse of a long-buried past. Middleton’s daughter standing in a witch’s costume. Her father telling her to go to bed. The hairs stood sentry on the back of my neck each time I was greeted with this vision. Was it an echo of the past – a residue of violence, or simply my imagination? I didn’t know. But as I stepped through the door, I saw him sitting at the decaying mahogany bureau.

The house was a museum, every piece of its story left where it should be. Upstairs, the air was sweet from patches of mould which patterned the walls. I turned back down the hall, to where Middleton took his first shot. The door to Robin’s room groaned in defiance as I pushed it aside. The frame of Robin’s small single bed was still in the middle of the room. I stood in quiet solemnity. I could see Mrs Middleton, her eyes bulging in horror. I’d replayed this in my mind so many times. Middleton’s father was found slumped downstairs, one arm through his bloodied dressing gown. His mother had been shot between the eyes while she phoned for help. As I turned towards the master bedroom, the door slammed shut in my face.

‘Not my little girl,’ a woman’s faint voice carried in the mildewed air. I had heard it before. I’d heard lots of things in this godforsaken place.