I slip through it and almost squeal out loud. In front of me, dimly lit by a single candle burning in a holder, are three coffins. Each one is on a waist-high trolley with wheels. The one furthest from the door has a pleated curtain round the base, concealing the metal and wheels of the trolley.

I hear the swing door creak at the end of the corridor. Mr Becker’s footsteps are getting closer and I realise I have left the door open, but it’s too late to go back. For a second, I freeze, but, as the footsteps draw alongside the doorway, I dart behind the far coffin and slip under the trolley’s curtain.

He stops at the door and goes, ‘Oh my goodness me,’ in a weary tone. ‘What have we here?’

He can’t know I’m here, can he? I’m crouched under a coffin behind a curtain: he can’t see me. Unless he can hear my heart thumping and that is a distinct possibility.

Then I hear the beep-beep-beep of a mobile-phone keypad.

Mr Becker is standing next to me now. If I angle my head down, I can just see the toes of his biker boots where the curtain doesn’t reach the ground.

‘Terry? Yes, it’s me.’ His voice is not loud, but I can tell he’s not pleased. ‘I’ve just come back to the site to pick up that paperwork and guess what? Not only was the alarm not set, but the door to Store Two was unlocked, and you’ve left a flippin’ candle burning! A naked flame. Well, sorry doesn’t quite cut it, Terry. It’s a massive fire risk. We’re running a funeral home here, Terry, not a bloody crematorium. Yeah, well. Consider that your final warning.’

He tuts as he ends the call, then I hear him blow out the candle and leave the room, locking it behind him, and …

… locking me in.

As Mr Becker’s footsteps die away, I find I cannot move. Ever heard of people being ‘paralysed with fear’? Well, that’s me. I never thought it could be real, but every time I try to move I freeze up. I’m locked in a dead-dark room with three coffins that have to contain dead people otherwise what are they doing here? It is as though my brain is telling my limbs: So long as you don’t move a muscle, nothing bad will happen.

I feel like throwing up, and I try to fight the urge to sob, but it doesn’t work and I let out a quavering wail of terror. When I realise that my wail of terror actually sounds like the woo-ooo-ooo of a Halloween ghost, I let out something that is a bit like a laugh and a scream. I’m crouched under a coffin in total darkness, making these lunatic noises, and I’m a mess.