We hurried up three steps into a close, dark corridor. The hair on my back was tingling — I willed myself to slow down, not to give in to the panicky feeling of scrutiny. I clenched my fists but it seemed to be following, a slow smothering wave slipping sluggishly after us, filling the passage from ceiling to floor, sweeping along the corners. Even Andrew seemed to sense it; he scrambled hastily along behind me. Round the corner, there was an open door, light glancing out. On impulse, I darted through, and after Kirsten and Andrew were in, slammed the door. Not that I felt it would keep us safe.

I could hear my breathing, hard under the patter of rain on glass. This was a bedroom, tidy despite years of disuse. The bedspread was a deep, lush red in the faltering light from the window, the frame dark iron. A picture on the wall showed another house at night, with the same kind of frantic architecture as this one, overlapping towers and balconies. I looked closer at a downstairs window. There was an odd, deformed silhouette in the frame, head sunk into its shoulders. And behind it, the room was lit in frail orange, as if from a dancing fire.

Kirsten and Andrew were at the window, the rain casting moving patterns on their faces. We could see over the front garden, where the black gate hung open. The trees rocked in silent agony. There was no sign of where we’d pushed through the grass. A streak of lightning cut the sky, and seconds later the thunder rolled over us. I wanted to laugh at the atmospherics, but I was wet and scared and suddenly wondered if I would ever leave here.

Kirsten gave a small cry. Andrew and I looked at her. She had turned and was staring at the bed. “There’s someone sleeping there,” she whispered, clapping a hand to her mouth, “sleeping there right now.”

The bed was empty, the sheets smooth.

Kirsten swallowed.

And we could only watch, frozen, as the door swung open, and we saw nothing as it pressed forward to cover us.