Behind her, a car hooted, making her jump, the driver waving his fist and swearing out of his open window as he overtook her. Rosie ignored him, fiddling with her Bluetooth.

She connected her phone to the speakers, her favourite playlist blasting out.

That was better. No news. She didn’t want any of that doom and gloom, thank you.

Instead she cranked the volume even higher, the sound of Green Day already lifting her spirits, and told herself that everything was going to work out okay.

45

She was done being scared.

Eileen Wickham had been in control for so long and it was all Hannah’s fault because she had let her. It was ridiculous. She hadn’t even seen the woman in years and shouldn’t have allowed her to have this headspace. It was time to take that control back.

Although the nerves still knotted in her stomach as they passed through the entrance to the farm, anger was now building and pushing them aside. She considered herself to be a rational woman, so why had she allowed this to happen?

For so long, she had been afraid to come back here, but Liam was right. This was just the shell of a building, and okay, bad things – very bad things – had happened here once, but that was in the past.

‘Are you okay?’

It was the second time he had asked and now when she answered, it was with more confidence.

‘Yes, I really am.’

As though to prove that point, she strode ahead to where the front door of the farmhouse was hanging off its hinges, Tank scrambling to keep up with her, not liking that he was no longer in front.

Pushing it open, she stepped through into the kitchen where they had once sat, the room filled with excited chatter as Mrs W served up cakes and cookies and the other treats she had used to lure them in.

The table was still there, the wood faded and dusty, and two of the legs broken so it stood like a slide and the curtains that hung at the window were dirty and torn, now little more than rags. The glass was smeared with filth and cracked, probably from where a stone had been hurled at it, and rubbish was everywhere, while cobwebs and graffiti adorned the once bright yellow walls.

Bitch

Murderer

Burn in hell

They were all messages for Mrs W, but she would likely never see them.

Hannah glanced at the cellar door, remembering the day Mrs W had revealed her true colours, locking her down there with Mr Bennett. Although she was older, wiser, didn’t even believe in ghosts, recalling how she had felt that day, trapped in the dark cupboard, sent an involuntary shiver skittering down her spine.

‘I’ve often wondered why they don’t tear the place down,’ she commented, as Liam joined her. ‘No one wants to live here.’