I snuggle closer to him and tell myself that everything will be OK. Mum will arrive in the morning. We just have to get through the night, like Stig says. I try not to think about the shadows in the corner of the room. Whatever’s there can’t be worse than what’s outside, and at least we have each other.

Stig strokes my hair for a few minutes, and then his hand drops to his side. A yawn escapes me and I close my eyes.

When I wake, the room is dark. The electric light in the living room must have packed up too. The flames in the stove have died to nothing; the only light is the red glow of the logs. Gandalf is growling softly in the back of his throat. I shiver and rub my arms, then lean over the back of the sofa to see what he’s looking at. He wags his tail and I shush him quiet.

The wind has dropped and the cabin is eerily quiet, almost as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I glance at the door. With any luck, whatever was out there is miles away by now, but even so, the idea of a creature roaming the blackness … I don’t want to think about it.

Gandalf growls again, louder this time. What’s got into him? I call his name softly, trying not to wake Stig, then reach out to pat him on the head. He backs away from me, his hackles raised. I follow his gaze and then I see it too – staring down at me from the ceiling.

16

A forlorn face with dark eyes and long wavy hair peers down from the shadows. My breath stops in my chest and goose pimples prick my arms. I cry out and Stig wakes with a start. I point and he looks upward. The shadows gather into the shape of a woman’s torso. Below that they trail into threads of nothing, like a rag doll that’s been ripped apart.

Stig shakes his head and looks confused. He doesn’t see it. I press my palm to my left eye and the ceiling looks normal. When I take my hand away, the shadows congeal. The head twists and two dark eyes lock onto mine. I gasp and grab Stig’s arm.

‘Martha, what is it? What’s there?’

‘A face in the shadows,’ I whisper.

‘Faen.’

‘It’s watching us,’ I hiss.

Stig jumps up from the sofa and tries the light switch – nothing. None of the lights are working. He grabs the torch from the dresser. ‘Where is it now?’ he asks, aiming the beam at the ceiling. The woman glares at me and opens her mouth in a silent scream. Stig shines the torch on her and the shadows scatter like cockroaches.

My shoulders drop with relief. ‘It’s gone.’

‘Are you sure?’