My mum picks up a lamp from the table and its flame leaps up, casting dark shadows about the room. As she raises it to my face, I’m struck again by how similar we are. It’s like looking into a mirror, only the grey eyes that stare into mine don’t reassure me that everything will be OK. They are full of pain.

She tucks my hair behind my ears and whispers, ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve longed to meet you.’ Her eyes glisten with tears and emotion closes my throat. There’s so much I want to ask her, so much I want to know, but I’m afraid to speak in case I cry. She strokes my cheek and I think she’s going to say something else, but then she glances at Tom, as if remembering we have an audience. Sighing, she turns and grabs two lamps from the dresser, then slides a box of matches into her skirt pocket. ‘I’ll show you where you can sleep. It’s not much, sorry.’

We cross the room and follow her into a different gloomy corridor. ‘The bathroom,’ she says, pointing to a closed door on our right. She walks towards a narrow staircase and takes the first step, then whips around as if she has heard something. At the far end of the passageway is a door with several large planks of wood hammered across it. Whoever boarded it up did a rough job, or they were in a hurry.

‘What’s with the door?’ asks Tom.

My mother’s eyes shine in the lamplight. ‘It’s blocked up for good reason. Stay away from it – no matter what you hear on the other side.’

Tom mumbles, ‘Of course, should have known.’

I give him a look, but I can hardly blame him. This is all starting to feel very weird. My mum continues up the stairs and I glance back at the door, wondering what could be behind it to make a noise. Rats? The connecting building looked short from the outside, nothing more than a passageway leading to the lighthouse tower, so it’s not like there can be a whole other room there. Peering at it, I notice that dozens of symbols have been painted on the door. On the ground is another line of salt, but protection from what?

We follow her up the stairs, the wood creaking and groaning under our feet as if the house doesn’t want us here. At the top are three closed doors. She points to one and says, ‘That’s my room,’ then passes another closed door and pushes open the last one.

A large dormer window dominates the attic space, bathing it in the eerie red glow from the lighthouse. There are two single metal beds, one on either side of the window, both with stained mattresses. Between them is a bedside table that looks at least fifty years old. To the right of the room is a battered wardrobe and chest of drawers and along the opposite wall is a sagging bookcase, its shelves crammed with books. Piles of them have been stacked vertically on top, reaching all the way to the sloping ceiling.