Keeping his eyes fixed ahead of him, Callum scrambled backwards over the wall and up the garden path. The light over the small porch was on, shining like a beacon. He yanked the latch upwards but – oh, hell – the door was locked.

Callum tore off his backpack and scrabbled in the outer pocket for his key. His fingers felt numb. How did it get so cold? Without taking his eyes off the road, he slid the heavy, old-fashioned key into the lock, and turned it sharply.

The lock jammed.

It often did – the mechanism was old and stiff. It didn’t normally matter, but tonight Callum knew that every moment he was outside the cottage, he was vulnerable. Cursing under his breath, he turned his back on the road for a split second to jiggle the key in the lock. With a click, he heard it turn. As he pushed the door open, he glanced back over his shoulder – and his breath caught in his chest.

Just beyond the rails of the old picket gate, deep black against the darkness of the road, stood an indistinct animal shape. Callum couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it was huge.

It wasn’t just the size of the creature that took his breath away, though, nor the red glow of its eyes floating in the darkness. It was the waves of icy air that seemed to flow from it, so cold they threatened to stop his heart. Callum didn’t need a lifetime’s experience of seeing ghosts to know that the creature was not of this world.

For a long moment, he stared at the phantom. What was it? And why was it following him? Then Gran’s voice called to him through the narrow gap in the door.

‘Callum? Is that you?’

For an instant, Callum turned to glance inside. When he turned back, the black shape at the gate had gone.