Morgan lay back on her bed, staring at her bedroom walls. A storm was picking up outside, as wet sleet came down. Spitters, her mum called them. Icy, wet snowflakes that melted on your skin. Where was her mother now? According to her father’s latest update, nobody knew. Her disappearance had been reported, but she would come home soon enough. Harmony was no stranger to sofa-surfing. Morgan knew she would be OK.

Beside her, the radiator rattled as the heating came to life. Too little too late, she thought, her eyes flicking to the damp patch on the ceiling that seemed to be growing by the hour. Black spores bloomed, her own personal Rorschach tests. But the images deciphered were ugly and forlorn. Earlier, in the living room, she had heard Connie and Naomi talking about her, and blasted a Metallica playlist to drown them out. But now the living room was silent, apart from the usual creaks and groans of the house. A blast of wind rattled her windowpane followed by a fresh pelt of sleet. She had forgotten to ask Dawn for her mobile number. Had she had it, she would have called their meeting off.

Dawn’s eyes had been bright as she filled her in on the history of Ivy Cottage. She spoke with a strange enthusiasm – perhaps her life was so sheltered she had nothing else to talk about. This bedroom had belonged to Grace, the kid who disappeared ten years ago. Had Grace stared at these ceilings, trapped within these four walls as Dawn claimed she was? Did Grace know she only had a couple of years to live? It felt good to gain Dawn’s trust as she relayed the gossip on the Harper family.

Morgan opened up her laptop, grateful that the internet connection was working on full bars. She had barely spoken to Taz since coming to this godforsaken place. She smiled as his profile displayed he was online.

Hey you, Taz typed. Where have you been?

The Wi-Fi’s shit around here, comes and goes, she replied, pushing her glasses back on to the bridge of her nose.

I miss you. I barely get to speak to you any more.

This house is creepy AF, Morgan typed, changing the subject.

Did he really miss her? And if so, in what way? It was a subject she was reluctant to tackle. She liked things the way they were.

The floor is all creaky, and it smells like dead bodies in the walls.

How do you know what dead bodies smell like?

Morgan snorted. He had her there. I don’t. But I guess they’d smell like my room. Rotting and sour. Sticks at the back of your throat.

Have you checked? For bodies, I mean. They could be under your floorboards. They could be anywhere. Maybe even in your loft.