All old houses seem to breathe and move, and Mundham Farm was no different. He trod on a board which gave a loud whine. As still as he could manage, he hung back in the recesses of the landing; but he heard no footsteps. He breathed out.

Tom edged along the corridor. There were several doors on this landing and coming off it were smaller corridors, including to his own room, and one leading to Jack’s rooms. The stairs up to the attic went from by Zita’s room. The pipe music was still faint, and he wondered if it was even coming from inside the farmhouse at all. No lights shone from any of the doors, so Tom pressed on across the landing.

The stairway to the attic looked impossibly dark. But he had faced the cellar; whatever was up in the attic could surely be no worse.

He put his foot onto the first step, and then the second, telling himself all the time that he was being ridiculous, that nobody would wake up, and at the same time that there couldn’t possibly be anybody up in the attic, as he would have heard or seen something. He turned the corner, his eyes now adjusted to the dark, and came up onto the attic floor.

The music was nearer now, surely. There were four or five doors here. Tom steeled himself. His torch made small pools of light. He counted the doors. Hang on – were there six? He must be going crazy. He turned to his left and shone the beam onto the wall, moving it slowly to the right. As he drew it across the walls, his hand began to shake. There were seven doors. His mouth was getting dry. The note of the flute was wilder now, impossibly yearning. Where were the stairs? They seemed further away.

The shadows on the walls grew larger, stretching into forms that seemed to warn. Putting his hand out behind him, panicking, he managed to locate the banister rail, and, holding onto it as if it were a lifebelt, he inched his way back down.

As soon as his feet touched the first-floor landing, his mind cleared. The moon was shining through the mullioned window, and he sat down carefully on the wooden settle. The ticking of clocks echoed throughout the entire house.

Tom switched his torch off and sat in the darkness. He’d had some kind of mental attack, clearly. How could the attic grow larger? It was impossible. But there could be magic at play. He sighed. It was late – too late. He’d tried to do too much on one night only.