I open the bedroom door and freeze. The chest is where I left it, but the books are not. They’re stacked in piles on the floor, as if waiting to be read. Fear lodges in my throat. I want to scream for Stig but I clasp a hand to my mouth. He was creeped out by the spinning wheel. What if he goes and leaves me here alone? Or worse, what if he thinks I’m seeing things or making it up? My jaw clenches as I carefully close the door.

I light the lamp with trembling fingers. Afraid to turn my back on the chest, I stand with it on my right side – where I can see it.

Nothing moves. The room is silent apart from the low moan of the wind.

I take the top book from the first pile and flick through words I don’t comprehend. Why would anyone want me to look at books I can’t understand? A twitch of movement in the chest catches my attention. I look inside to see a large roll of material and a single journal. On top of it is a canvas bag, embroidered with the letter K. Maybe I’m not meant to read the books; maybe I’m meant to find something else. The bag is still now. Perhaps it was just my imagination.

Afraid to go near it, I glance at the door. I wouldn’t be brave enough to touch it if I was alone. But I’m not. Stig is here. I can call him if I need to.

Swallowing my fear, I reach inside and lift out the bag. The material is stained and tatty and smells of mothballs. Opening the string, I find a rag doll. I tip it onto the floor and it lands against the chest, head slumped on its body. Strands of yellow wool have been sewn on as hair, but are faded from age. Its arms and legs are basic: white material stuffed into lumpy shapes, roughly stitched together with black thread.

I take the journal from the chest and look inside to see the name Karina – my great-grandmother. Not wanting to touch the doll, I reach out with the book, planning to scoop it up and drop it back inside. Before I can touch it, the doll slips to one side. For a sickening moment, it seems to jerk its arm.

The face that gazes up at me is innocent enough: a red line for lips and a delicate nose. It has black cross-stitches for one eye, but the other is missing. I sit back on my heels, my heart beating sideways in my chest. Someone has unpicked the eye on the left side of its face.

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