The spine-chilling cry faded to a low murmur and Callum forced himself to lie still, listening for it again. Long moments passed. The wind moaned as it rattled the window frame, but it was just wind, not the voice of some baying demon. At the bottom of the bed, Cadbury raised his head and gave him a quizzical look.

‘Just a nightmare, Cad.’

But it wasn’t just a nightmare. Callum wanted to believe it was his mind playing tricks, but he knew better. Forcing his frozen feet out of bed, he slipped over to the window. He didn’t turn on the light – the only glowing window in the row of empty cottages would attract too much attention – just pressed his face against the leaded panes.

Held in place by the pressure of Callum’s touch, the window stopped rattling, but the branches of the rowan tree growing by the side of the cottage still tapped at the glass. Callum held his breath to keep the panes from misting up and stared out into the windy night.

There was no sign of the animal shadow that had followed him home, but Callum knew now, with certainty, that it was still there. He could almost sense its closeness; it could be at the old mill, or at the bottom of the hill where Marlock Road joined the main road to Stockport, or, more likely, lurking in the cover of the woods.

Shooing Cadbury out of the way, Callum wrapped his duvet round himself, up to his chin, then sat at the window staring out. Was there no place now he could feel safe, no place he could sleep soundly? The cottage had always been a haven for him. There weren’t any ghosts here, no need for Luck. It was the one place where Callum could feel normal – at least, it had been until now.

‘What’s happening, Cad?’ he whispered.

His Luck sometimes warned him about danger, but it always operated by instinct. He’d never had a dream like this before. He’d never been given an actual message.