I pick up the lamp and turn to go when I notice something move at the window. A dark shape swoops past, too big for a bird, and then I remember the cormorants I saw on the boat. I walk over and look out, but I can’t see any of the fearsome black seabirds.

The lighthouse stands at the end of the building, dominating the cottage. Its pale walls take on an ethereal glow in the dying light, the bands of red paint the colour of dried blood. A white metal platform runs around the glass lantern at the top. Just the thought of being up there makes me feel vulnerable. Something about its red light feels invasive, penetrating even. Why do I feel like it’s watching me?

I close the curtains, relieved to shut out the unnatural crimson glow, and then turn my back to the window. The room is so much darker than it was before. I raise the lamp and the flame shudders, making strange shapes leap along the walls. The light isn’t strong enough to reach into the corners of the room and I peer into a dense patch of grey that lingers beneath the sloping ceiling. I don’t know why, but I have the feeling I’m not alone.

The thought sends a shiver through me and I head to the door. As I step onto the landing, the floor creaks, making me jump. And then I hear Tom singing in the bathroom downstairs, though who exactly he’s inviting to put a ring on it is unclear. I smile and blow out a breath, determined to get it together. I bet Beyoncé isn’t afraid of the dark.

I make my way down the stairs, the wood betraying my every step, then pause and listen for Tom’s voice. All I hear is the wind and the crash of waves. I tell myself to turn and go to the kitchen, but I don’t. My head swivels towards the boarded-up door.

Holding up the lamp, I walk to the end of the passageway and study the symbols I saw earlier. They flicker and dance in the lamplight: squiggles, dots and shapes, their outlines thick and blurry as if someone used their finger to paint them. And yet they seem too purposeful to have been done by a child. I press my palm to the wood and something in me bristles with indignation, almost as if a door has been slammed in my face. Heat prickles across my chest and my other hand grips the lamp so hard my fingernails bite into my flesh.

You’re not who you think you are.

The thought comes from nowhere and I shake it from my head. Looking closer at the markings, I realise they aren’t black, as I first thought, but dark red. I touch one of them, surprised to find the surface flaking away, when I hear a whisper. I recoil and it comes again, more insistent this time. Fear sluices through me. The words are low and hard to make out, but it sounds like a woman.