But he never did. He only ever saw the ghosts of strangers. And what’s the use of that? Callum thought as he ran more close-to-boiling water into the bath. What’s the point of being able to see ghosts if I can’t see the ones I care about?

‘Callum?’ His grandmother rapped at the door again. ‘Your Bovril’s waiting in your room. Don’t let it get cold! Hurry up now; I put the heater on for you, and you know I don’t like to leave it when no one’s there.’

With another sigh Callum washed quickly and drained the tub.

Up in his room, he dressed again. He had the bigger of the two small bedrooms. The one that had been his dad’s, for the same reason it was now his: he had more stuff than Gran. The room was crammed with football and rugby boots, cricket bats and tennis racquets, a guitar and music stand, and a large portable CD player that had belonged to his mother. On the floor was a growing pile of books. Gran joked that she and Callum went in for competitive book-collecting.

Well-trained by Gran, Callum kept his things in good order, and by the standards of the other kids at school he didn’t have much – there was no desk, no computer, no telly, no games console.

No ghosts, either. No ghosts ever in this room. No ghosts in the whole cottage. For the first time, Callum wondered why.

The wind whistled sharply under the loose tiles above his window, reminding him of the howl of the creature in the dark. He shivered. What had it been? He could think of one way to find out, but he would have to be careful.

‘Callum? Supper’s ready!’ Gran called up the stairs.

Callum dutifully switched off the electric heater and went back downstairs, pulling the drop-leaf table away from the wall behind him. The room was so small that, opened out, the table blocked the narrow stairway.