The timing of the dig seemed to be another factor that had heightened the chances of such a strong connection being made with the past. The ghost of the person in the grave was being disturbed, and that disturbance had led it to seek out Tilda.

Why me? What did my ancestor have to do with the person in the grave? There must have been something that happened, something huge.

She stops running. Thistle stops too, looking at her, ears pricked, waiting.

‘We have to go to the grave.’ She forms the statement aloud to the dog, but it is herself she needs confirmation from. ‘Tomorrow they’ll lift the body out. After that, well, there’ll be no getting the genie back in the bottle. Think I’d rather face her now, when that heavy stone weighs things a little in my favor.’ She turns down the path that will take her to the dig site. The going is horribly slippery, and the rain has increased so that it is starting to work through the fabric of her clothing. She spits away the water that courses down her face and increases her speed. As she approaches, she is relieved to see that the site is deserted. She imagines everyone will be away celebrating Christmas with their families for as long as possible before returning to raise the remains. There is something eerie about the empty tent, the abandoned trench and the general feeling of loneliness that permeates the place. She sets her mind against the wriggle of fear that is working its way in.

This is no time to get jittery. I can do this. I have to do this. That thing has got to see that I’m not going to be terrified by it anymore. That it has to leave me alone. I’m ready for it now. I’m not the defenseless person it thinks I am.

She reaches the grave. Lucas has covered it over with polythene sheeting, pinned down with tent pegs and weighted at the corners with hefty stones. The earth around the whole area is horribly churned up from all the activity of the preceding few weeks, followed by the harsh weather, and now the sudden thaw and heavy rain. Thistle stands close to Tilda, her body tense.

‘It’s going to be okay, girl. You’ll see,’ she assures her, hoping the dog cannot sense the extent of her own anxiety. She pulls out the pegs, moves the rocks and peels back the plastic. It makes an unpleasant rattle as she folds it into an untidy heap, a sound that seems startlingly loud amid the quiet of the early morning. Now the large, flat stone that pins the body in place is revealed. Tilda quells a shudder at the thought of what that stone signifies, of what must have happened.

Now, what? Do I stand here and talk to … to what?