And then there was no mistaking it, for there were words, soft against my ear, intimate, wheedling: This way . . . Take this little twisty path ...

Nothing to be seen, only the voice. Something compelled me to look to the right, where a smaller path soft with ferns made a tempting way into a deeper part of the woods. On either side the trunks of beeches glowed green with moss under the filtered sunlight. Shuddering, I turned away, heading in the opposite direction.

No, this way! It came in a different voice, lower, more hushed, a gentle, persuasive tone. Over here . . . Follow me ...

This way, thisss way . . .Now it was a chorus, a clamour all around me; the forest was full of voices.

“Stop it!” I cried, feeling both alarmed and a little foolish. “Leave me alone!”

Something tugged at my right arm, almost dislodging my writing box. Bony fingers dug into my flesh, putting me sharply in mind of last night’s hideous dream. I wrenched myself free.

Something clutched my left arm, then put its hand on my waist, fingers creeping. I ran, my bag bouncing on my back, my feet slipping on a carpet of forest litter, my skin crawling with disgust. I skidded through puddles and blundered against rocks, I whipped past briars and bruised myself on branches. My head had room for nothing but the need for flight. My body seemed full of my pounding heart.

I came up hard against the trunk of a birch and stood there, my chest heaving.The voices had fallen silent. On every side was a dense blanket of bushes, ferns and creepers, and the trees like a waiting army.The path was nowhere to be seen.