© 2025 Chantelle Atkins. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Jesse moans softly when a pair of curious fingers probe his skull. He is lying on the kitchen floor close to the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands cuffed together in front of his face. He winces as the fingers prod. The side of his head feels fuzzy and wrong. His ear aches and his brain is pounding inside his skull as if it wants to get out.

‘Does it need stitches?’ A gruff voice snaps. Mayfield.

The fingers rifle gently through his hair, parting it in different ways around the head wound.

‘No, I don’t think so. It’s clotted up. Really, Aaron. What were you thinking?’

It’s Neville Hewlett, Jesse realises and keeps his eyes shut. His bowels feel weak and watery as something is pressed against the wound and held there.

‘I was thinking some criminal low life was burgling my house and I was right!’ Mayfield replies, his tone full of outrage.

‘I thought you said nothing was taken or touched?’ Hewlett’s voice is calm, bordering on the condescending, perhaps even a little amused.

‘My door was touched! He broke in with a crowbar! He was after something, Neville. He just didn’t find it.’

‘Well, what on earth do you propose we do now?’

‘I’ve arrested him.’

‘You’ve bashed him unconscious, Aaron.’

Mayfield clicks his tongue in annoyance. ‘He’s fine. Sit him up. I didn’t know who it was, did I? I was defending myself.’

‘Hold on.’

Jesse winces again as a wad of cloth or tissues is pressed harder against the wound. Neville Hewlett’s touch is firm and precise, as he smooths Jesse’s hair back and mops up the sticky blood. When Jesse’s eyes flicker open, Neville smiles at him brightly.

‘Hello there, son! How are you feeling?’

Jesse makes a noise at the back of his throat and tries to sit up.

‘All right, take it slow, let me help you. You’ve had a blow to the head.’

Neville holds his arm and helps him slowly sit up and lean on the kitchen wall. Jesse lifts his cuffed hands and tries to inspect the wound but Neville gently presses the folded cloth back over it.

‘Ooh, let me. Just a minute, it’ll be okay. No serious damage. You’ve got a bit of an egg growing there though. You okay?’ Neville is squatting beside him and peering into his face. He holds up his other hand. ‘How many fingers can you see?’

Jesse grunts, ‘Two.’

‘See,’ says Mayfield, towering over them both. ‘He’s fine.’

‘Well, best be sure. He’s ever so pale. And shaking.’ Neville claps a hand on Jesse’s knee and looks up at Mayfield. ‘See?’

Mayfield rolls his eyes impatiently. ‘What were you doing in my house?’ he growls.

Jesse looks away. He screws up his eyes and focuses on the pain. He can’t bear to look at Mayfield and he can still hear that animalistic roar inside his head.

‘Leave him be, Aaron,’ sighs Neville. ‘He’s not in good shape. We need to decide what to do.’

There is a long drawn out sigh from Mayfield. His hands are in his pockets and he looks at the ceiling in frustration.

‘I’ll phone Margaret…’ He strides reluctantly out of the kitchen.

Neville Hewlett remains beside Jesse. He takes the cloth and inspects it for fresh blood. Then he folds it over and dabs again at the side of Jesse’s head. Jesse doesn’t say a word. It feels like language is lost to him. He can barely hold onto a single coherent thought. He wonders briefly if Mr Hewlett will help him, let him go even. But he doesn’t dare ask. He can’t look at him either. He just sits with his cuffed hands resting on his bent knees and his head throbbing like an old dream half-remembered.

His eyes are half-open and focused on the tiled floor. He thinks of Willow and the photos. At least she got away. She’s got the photos that might lead them to Paddy.

Neville Hewlett drops a hand onto his shoulder and he jumps in fright, his hunched body releasing a shuddery gasp.

‘Whoa there, it’s okay, it’s okay…’ Neville assures him in a low voice. He’s staring right at him and when Jesse glances his way he sees an intense gaze on his face and a small wondering smile on his lips. His smooth unblemished face seems to suggest an eerie agelessness that makes Jesse shift away from him. ‘We just want to help you, Jesse, that’s all. You’ve got yourself into a right old mess, haven’t you?’ He sighs sadly. ‘What were you thinking, breaking in here?’

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say it: I was looking for a book that went missing with Paddy; I think Sergeant Mayfield is some kind of monster; help me, let me go!

But just then Mayfield struts back in, phone to ear. ‘If that’s what you want to do, Margaret,’ he says, rolling his eyes when Neville glances at him. ‘All right then… Yes, I suppose you might be right…. Yes, we’ll sit tight for now then. Your call. All right then… Of course…. See you soon.’ He ends the call and stares at Jesse. ‘Well, it looks like you got lucky, Archer. The mayor still seems to think there is hope for you. She’s on her way over.’

2

Willow forces herself to slow down. She has skirted around the edge of town in order to avoid the streets and it seems to have taken forever. When she finally arrives back at the shop, her chest is tight with breathless fear and adrenalin. She can’t quite believe they did it.

It’s all spinning through her mind like a crazy movie. The chainsaw, the power cut, the fight, the break-in, the book, the treehouse, the photos. She pictures each scene as if rewatching the whole thing in her head and she smiles in sudden joy and relief. They did it! They really did it!

For you, Paddy, she thinks as she lets herself into the shop and locks the door carefully behind her, I hope you’re proud of us. She waits until she is safely in her bedroom and then all at once a helpless sadness hits her. It comes out of nowhere. She holds herself and sobs, each one violently wracking her whole body. She thinks of him, sees him, feels him and allows herself to miss him. This time a week ago they were together, eating homemade pizza in the treehouse. He was talking with his mouth full again, his eyes laughing as he told her about sighting the rings of Saturn with his new 70mm telescope. His father had taken a look and expressed his doubts but Paddy had been adamant.

He had binoculars around his neck too and the back of his neck was a bit sunburned because they’d been at the lake earlier that day, in the full sun, trying to catch tiddlers with a net, laughing like idiots before they collapsed in the grass together. And all that time, he could have told her about the book. Now she wonders if he was thinking about it the whole time: when they were at the lake, when they were paddling, when they splashed each other, when they helped Mr Finnis roll out the pizza dough… Was he urging her to leave so that he could examine the book?

Her mind races with questions followed by questions, curiosity, and anger now replacing grief and confusion. Why did Mayfield want the book? Why did he steal it? Did he do something to Paddy? How is it all connected?

Willow crosses to the bed and slips out of her cloak. She drops the heavy camera onto her bed and takes the stack of photos out of her pocket. The moon is out, full and bright, shining on her lap as she sits down and looks through the pictures. She frowns – they don’t make much sense. Words, possibly Latin, definitely not English; ornate patterns and pictures scorched in black, etched into the pages made of paper so aged they are almost golden.

Pictures of wild animals dancing around the edges of some of the pages, head to tail, over and over again; hares, birds, wolves, deer.

She wonders if they are spells. If the book holds the secrets of some ancient witchcraft. It’s crazy but so is everything else: Mayfield; the cameras; Paddy vanishing. Witchcraft makes sense and she remember the book her and Jaime looked at; the legend of the witch turning into a hare to escape her pursuers.

Willow’s skin prickles as she gathers the photos back up. She lies back on her bed, her arms folded behind her head. They’ll start tomorrow, she decides, they’ll start unravelling the mystery, poring through the clues.

We’re coming, Paddy, she promises him, we’re coming for you.

3

Margaret Sumner has her gamekeeper drive her over to Station Road. He waits discreetly in the muddy Land Rover in his flat cap and waterproof jacket, while she strides calmly up to Mayfield’s back door and lets herself in.

She’s instantly in pity of the boy on the floor. Jesse Archer is a tall, thin, handsome boy with dark hair and angry eyes – and he’s sat there, huddled and helpless, his face white with shock, his eyes dull with pain. A bloodied cloth sits on the floor beside him and the side of his head appears damp.

Aaron leans causally against his kitchen table, hands in pockets, eyes sharp. Neville Hewlett hovers over the boy, smiling nervously.

‘Uncuff him, Aaron,’ she says briskly. ‘There’s no need.’

Aaron exhales but takes out his keys and approaches Jesse to remove the cuffs. Neville’s head is bobbing up and down excitedly.

‘Yes, I said that to him. It’s over the top.’

Cuffs off, Jesse rubs his wrists but won’t look at any of them. Mayfield returns to lean on his table, arms folded. Margaret steps closer to the boy and tilts her head. ‘I think it’s best if you come with me tonight, Jesse. I think it’s best all round.’

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head, his eyes on hers. ‘No, I don’t want to. No.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She frowns at him. ‘We’ve warned you and your father that things can’t go on like this. This is the final straw. Let us help you, Jesse. You’ve got potential. Your life can be better than this.’

But he keeps shaking his head and saying no, no, so she gives Neville and Aaron a nod and they advance wordlessly, each seizing an arm. The boy reacts like a scared animal, twisting and ducking and wrenching from side to side to escape.

‘You will be fine,’ she tells him as she steps in front of his writhing form and takes his face into her hand. She holds him firmly but gazes at him gently. ‘Enough young man, enough. Listen to me. You’re going to be just fine. I’ll take good care of you. This is going to be a second chance for you, Jesse. You do deserve a second chance and the town can no longer stand by and watch your suffering. It’s time to come home.’

‘No!’ He pulls his face fee and struggles again. ‘No, you can’t make me! Get off!’

He’s twisting, breathless and utterly panicked as the two men manhandle him out of the house and towards her waiting car. Margaret watches solemnly and is relieved when he suddenly stops struggling, perhaps due to something Aaron hissed viciously into his ear, perhaps because he is so exhausted. He goes limp, his head hanging and there is a sigh of relief all round.

But as they reach the car, Jesse launches into action again finding a strength the two men do not expect. He wrenches one arm free and swings wildly to punch Neville in the face. Neville lets go and Margaret watches in both amusement and horror as Jesse Archer tears himself free and sprints off into the darkness at breakneck speed.

Aaron moves to go after him but Margaret calls him back. ‘Don’t bother. He won’t get far.’

4

Jesse doesn’t even know what direction he’s running in. He just runs. His speed surprises even him. His head is a ball of pain, his shoulder throbs and his legs are exploding with sharp spasms of agony with every step he takes. There is no light, just blackness that he keeps charging into, hoping that at some point he will burst through it and be able to see again.

He’s running uphill, barely slowing, convinced someone or something is close on his heels. He imagines teeth snapping behind him and charges on, legs pumping, feet pounding, battling his way forward. He thinks of escape, of getting out. Never going back, not for anything, not for Paddy or anyone. It’s too late now, he reasons, because they know. He has seen too much. He has escaped their plans and he can never go back, never ever let them catch him.

The urge for escape pushes him on, up and up, until his knees are trembling with exhaustion. Jesse scowls at the top of the hill. Faced with yet more, he just keeps moving, moving away from them.

He realises too late that he has stumbled onto the edge of Black Woods. His heart churns violently with a fresh horror and he changes direction, craving the open hills again, but a thick mist has submerged the ground, weaving its way among the trees and disguising his way out.

Jesse’s panic is like an ice cold vice around his vital organs. He feels a stream of urine escape and drip down his legs. He bites back screams and keeps running and staggering and flailing his way through the dark trees.

The mist rises and blinds him. He puts out his hands and slows to a juddering walk, and he bumps into tree after tree and knows he must be deep in the woods now. Lost. He wants to curl up and hide but he knows they will find him. So, he keeps moving, palming and grazing rough tree bark until his knuckles sting. He is surrounded by thick silence until a branch cracks underfoot behind him.

Breathless with terror, Jesse hurries on, picturing a clearing in his mind, a way out through a patch of welcoming light. There is another crack to his left and he whimpers in fear. He can feel it again – that patient presence, that watchful hunger – and as he moves faster, bumping even harder into the trees, he can hear it too. Not just footfalls, gentle and measured, but breathing – rough, heavy breathing and he imagines black lips settling back over a crooked smile.

The mist is impenetrable, the stalker is gaining ground, and Jesse is seconds away from buckling knees and a pitch into the misty undergrowth, when he spots a dark shape moving ahead of him.

It forces his eye – it’s swiftness, its loping gait, its intelligence, and suddenly Jesse feels no fear. He follows it. It moves on, up and down, in and out, luring him away, providing a darkness to follow to escape the one behind.

Jesse moves faster, gaining in confidence as he closes in on the creature and sees long black ears and a sloped back. Jesse feels elated, tears stinging his eyes as he sees the mist thinning out and feels the air change around him and the scent of the open fields caressing his skin.

He blunders out of Black Wood and doesn’t look back. Jesse runs, with a slither of moon directing him through the old maze before thundering his way across the rubble of the ancient graveyard. His foot strikes a piece of stone and before he can steady himself, he is sprawling forward into the ground, smashing his left knee into a chunk of exposed gravestone.

Jesse grunts in pain, sitting up and hugging his knee into his chest with his eyes screwed up and that’s when he hears the serene voice floating around him.

‘Jesse….Jesseeeee…’

He spins onto all fours and stares around wildly. The thick mist has seeped free of Black woods and is swirling stealthily down the hill towards him. He staggers to one knee, gasping at the pain in the other and sees his jeans have been flayed open where he hit the stone. He glimpses a flash of ruby red blood before he hauls himself to his feet and begins to move again.

He tells himself he imagined it. He didn’t hear a thing. Not now, not back there, not ever. He’s going crazy maybe, imagining things, hearing things that are not there. He’ll keep going. He’ll get out, he will. Get out and never come back. He runs down to Lovers Lane and heads right towards the edge of town. He will run alongside the river – that’s it – he’ll follow the river until it leads him far away from this town.

Jesse jogs along, pain jarring his knee with every step. He is so tired now that every movement feels slower and more sluggish than the last. He’s found the river and is following it with the caravan park on his left and a barn full of Sumner’s sheep on the right. He’s breathing hard, close to panic again and when he looks over his shoulder he sees the mist growing behind him. He gulps and picks up pace and a grim determination falls over him as he moves on as fast as he is able, and after another ten minutes of steady running he sees Black Hare Cottage on the left.

It’s barely visible through the mist and suddenly he notices that he can hardly see the river either. His foot slips on wet earth and he moves to the right nervously then stops, and stares around.

The river is gone. He can’t see it but he can hear it. It’s a hissing slushing moving noise that suddenly seems to surround him. He steps forward, feeling his way with his toes before committing to each step. His hand are in front of him again.

‘Jesseeee… Jesseeee…. Jesseeeeee…’

Jesse freezes, his eyes staring into the mist as its cold touch coats his face and fear tightens his scalp. His chest is rising and falling with each terrified breath.

Freezing water sloshes over his boots and he looks down with a yelp, but of course he can’t see a thing because the mist has trapped him again. He shakes his head in misery. The voice is all around him and so is the water.

‘Jesseeeee… Jesseeeee…’

‘Shit,’ he grunts just to hear something else. He starts moving again, feeling his way blindly as the water rushes up to meet his knees. How did he end up in the river? A new fear grips him: the fear of being consumed by the blackness of the water and washed away; of it taking hold of him, smashing his limbs as they flail around for a grip; of water rushing over his head and holding him under.

He realises this town has many ways to kill you.

Jesse thinks he glimpses the black shape again – somewhere to the left, but it’s gone again in a blink and he can’t be sure he wasn’t just imagining it. He has no other choices though so heads that way, thrashing through the water, beating his way forward until his hands find wet stony soil and his knees finally rise up from the water.

His fingers grasp wet grass and sludgy mud slides through his fingers as he hauls himself up and away from the river chasing by below him.

‘Jesseee…’

He stares around on his hands and knees, unsure if it came from behind, in front or even above him. He still can’t see a thing – still can’t trust the land under him. But the river is a dangerous coiled snake, waiting to devour him, so he gets up, and stumbles away, shivering with cold and fear, and he keeps going until he can no longer hear its rushing voice.

He can only manage a heavy plodding gait for now. His knees refuse to lift properly; the left one feels swollen and the other one is juddery with fatigue. He finds himself trudging through trees again. Dry leaves and twigs crunch underfoot and he wonders if he is still close to Black Hare Cottage but he can’t be sure because he still can’t see a thing through the mist.

It’s close and thick, and beyond that the darkness is like a brick wall. Jesse blunders through the woods, sobs trying to break free because he doesn’t think he can last much longer. The woods seem never-ending. Though he has lost all sense of time, it feels like the longer he staggers on, the bigger the woods become. And there is no sign of the black shape now, and as hard as he strains his ears and eyes, no sign of the town either, no glimmering lights or cars or candles lit in windows.

He’s beginning to regret the power cut part of the plan. There is nothing to suggest the existence of the town at all. He’s slowed to a walk again – he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t formulate thoughts or build decisions, he’s so close to giving up.

Jesse turns in a circle, his shoulders hanging in defeat, trying to pick out the shape of a cottage or even the spire of Saint Marks but there is nothing. Just endless darkness shrouded in white mist.

‘Jesseeeee…’

He knows the voice and it sends a jolt of fear down his spine and a small thin cry escapes his trembling lips.

‘What do you want?’ he whispers back, but he doesn’t really want to know. He picks up speed again. They can’t keep him here forever. They can’t. He pushes on, keeps going. His legs are dead flesh now, his pain the only thing that tells him he hasn’t died. And the most terrifying thing is how much he just wants to give in and fall down. Lay on the leaves and curl up and just let them take him. Maybe he ought to. Maybe the only way to find out what happened to Paddy is to let them take him too.

But something pushes him on, something inside him won’t give up yet – perhaps the cold fear and the thought of that voice reaching him, and the fragile hope that if he doesn’t give up, if he just keeps running, eventually he will get out.

Jesse feels something different under his feet. He looks down and through the swirls of mist he can see a road. He breathes out slowly, risking a glimmer of hope, though all it really means is that he has run around half of the town.

He bends down, hands on knees, gulping in pain and shock and exhaustion. He hears a giggle behind him and moves on, picking up speed again, refusing to look back. He stays on the road. He doesn’t know what road it is or what direction he is running in. He hopes it is right out of town but after another five minutes of frantic running, Jesse sees to his horror, the looming spire of Saint Marks church. He stops. He is running back into town.

Jesse’s breathing is now a hoarse, scratching wheeze. His legs are thick and fuzzy, the muscles screaming. His hips ache horribly and his head has never been filled with so much dark agony. He thinks again, I can’t do this much longer, I can’t.

He briefly considers running to the pub, to Jaime or to the gift shop to find Willow but he disregards the thought just as quickly. He doesn’t want to bring them this horror. He just has to go. He has to vanish and they’ll have to wonder forever what happened to him.

He gulps, swallowing another sob. He crosses the road, clinging to the knowledge that if the church is now behind him, he can slip between the butchers and the village hall and beyond there, Rowan Woods, Rowan Road, and after that, over the hills, another way out.

The Holloway, he thinks, his eyes widening in hope as he pictures its dark winding tunnel-like track, a track that ought to take him out of town. That was the point of a Holloway, he remembers, tracks and paths between towns. He moves on with new purpose.

Don’t give up yet, he tells himself and limps down the alley. The mist fills it quickly; it seems to move with a mind of its own, rising before his eyes to cloud the way. He runs his sore fingers along the wall of the village hall and then he is in the car park and bumping into parked cars. He looks at the hall – a dark desolate square shape behind him and sees what could be a few candles shimmering inside. Who is there? Will they help him?

Jesse shakes his head, no. They’ll just call the Neighbourhood Watch Committee and he’ll be caught again. He limps across the car park and finds the low brick wall with his hands, then climbs over.

There is blessed relief in finding his bearings again, knowing where he is. Beyond him, Rowan Woods awaits but if he veers right, he will stumble past the leisure centre, another small landmark.

He does just this, powering on now, angling right on shaking legs and throbbing feet. The woods close in on him, shutting out the light and the mist seizes control again, a swirling coldness that clings to his wet jeans.

Jesse goes faster, finding fresh strength from somewhere. He shuts out the fear and the panic and just concentrates on the fact he is still moving, still running, he is still trying and maybe he is stronger and braver and better than he thought he was. Maybe, even if he doesn’t make it, maybe he can take some comfort in that.

He’s still in the woods that now seem far bigger and denser than he recalls, when he hears something above him. A beating of wings, the sound of still air and dry leaves being disturbed by movement. He glances up, fear prickling the skin on the back of his neck. He thinks he sees something – a dark gliding shadow and then he hears it again, closer this time, surely, breath coating his neck…

‘Jesseee… Jesseeeeee…’

He moves on, faster again now, picking up his feet and forcing his knees to keep going, step after step, forwards, onwards and soon he feels tarmac again and hopes its Rowan Road in front of the leisure centre. He’s missed it somehow, even though he was sure he angled right, but it doesn’t matter because here is the play park and if he gets past that and keeps on Rowan Lane as it narrows, he can be up on the hills again. He can find the ruins and run on from there towards Bob Rowan’s land and the safety of the Holloway.

Jesse takes a deep breath. He thinks he hears soft laughter over his shoulder and another beat of huge wings above but he doesn’t look back. He hurries on. He can’t see much; the hills are cloaked in darkness and the mist is following him closely. But he tries to head to the ruins and when he makes it, he feels rough stone walls and immediately stumbles over chunks of bricks, and he cries out in pure joy.

He feels like he has won for a brief moment as he leans against the old castle walls and gives himself a chance to properly catch his breath. His body shakes violently from the endurance and the fear but he takes a moment, he just needs a moment.

Then all at once the ruins fill with freezing mist. He watches in open-mouthed horror as everything disappears under it, even his own feet, his own hands. He closes his mouth and his eyes, instinctively fearing it means to seep inside his body and destroy him from within.

Jesse stands still, frozen and terrified, and he can’t even feel the wall behind him now even though he knows he did not move away from it. And he hears those wings again and he is not surprised to hear other sounds now too, close and getting closer. That ragged, throaty breathing, the rumbling snarls that start within some hideously deep chest, and roll out over bared teeth. And the laughter, the amusement dripping from the voice that fills his ears and his head…

‘Jesseeeee… Jesseeeee… Jesseeeee…’

With his hands pressed over his ears, Jesse staggers away from the ruins and runs full pelt down the hill towards the border of Bob Rowan’s land. He sees it as his last hope. He knows the way in; where the badger sett is on the edge of the woods. There is a place where the barbed wire fence doesn’t quite meet the muddy ground, leaving a human-sized hole to squeeze through.

For a moment, as he tears down the grassy slopes with his lungs burning, Jesse feels like he has outrun them, whatever they are. The mist finally thins and the shape of the trees and the fence line can just be seen. Jesse flings himself towards it, skidding to his knees, crying out in pain, then propelling his aching body through the gap. He picks himself up and stumbles towards the dark space where the Holloway begins.

He feels its coldness envelope him and the land almost instantly begins to drop under his feet. He hurries down, reaching out to the walls for support, grasping at tree roots as the tunnel-like path swallows him whole.

He trips.

The ground is thick with mud and hidden roots and he finds himself spreadeagled in it, winded. And, as his lifts his head and stares around, he can see the mist following him, creeping mischievously down the ancient path, whispering as it curls its way through roots and branches.

 It’s all too late; they’ve caught him. He’s trapped, he can’t escape. He can’t get out. But he can’t stay still, can’t let them devour him, so he crawls forward blindly, feeling dirt and grass under his hands and soaking his knees.

He only opens his eyes when he feels the ground rolling away from him. Panicking, fearing a hole or an unknown cave or tunnel, his eyes shoot open and suddenly he sees the dark shape again. It’s close by. It’s watching. He could almost reach out and touch it. Is it real?

And behind him, the smell of rotting flesh and the slow melodic beating of heavy wings. He crawls after the shape, scrambling, scurrying like a creature himself. He follows it and stares at it, his eyes so wide they ache in the sockets, determined not to lose it in the mist.

Jesse feels that this is his last chance. He has run so far and so long and been beaten back, confused, thwarted and laughed at, and now the black shape is closer than ever and he crawls as fast as possible, terrified of losing it and the further they go from the Holloway and from the ruins, the calmer he feels. The wings do not follow… The voice falls silent and the stench of dead flesh fades away.

Part of him hopes the shape is leading him out of the valley but part of him doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to rest, he just wants somewhere safe to curl up and rest. He can’t take this anymore.

Jesse keeps crawling, his eyes fixed obsessively on the black shape as it moves ahead of him in a loping, zig-zagging motion. It’s not until he crawls onto Lupin Lane that Jesse realises it has led him back into town. His heart falls but the shape does not desert him. It stays close, and even waits while he uses a fence to pull himself to his feet.

Jesse stumbles down Lupin Lane until he can see the Hare and Hound on his left and the library to his right. The shape dashes over the road, almost invisible now in the solid dark but Jesse can make out the shine of its huge eyes when it turns to look back at him.

‘Okay, okay,’ he pants and follows it.

It runs across High Street at speed and vanishes down the alley between the row of shops and the school playing fields. Jesse follows, thinking how it feels like a lifetime ago that he stood there waiting for the lights to go out, waiting for Willow.

He can’t see the shape now but the mist is thinning out. He runs his hand along the alley wall until he reaches the other end and he can see the bookshop. Paddy’s bookshop. He stops for breath then spots the shape running down the alley between the bookshop and hardware.

Jesse looks both ways just in case then runs after it. He is almost done now, almost spent, he has nothing left to give. Yet this thing, this shadow, wants him to follow it and he knows that he feels better in its presence.

He staggers like a blind man down the dark alley. He stops at the end and can’t see it, but he feels his way towards Paddy’s back gate which is still hanging open just like it was a week ago when Paddy was still here.

Jesse presses his trembling palms against the flaky wood and eases it gently to one side. He glances up and sees candlelight flickering inside the flat. He looks down and sees the black shape is there, waiting for him. Blinking in confusion, Jesse moves forward, each step more painful than the last. He is drenched in sweat and soaked and muddied from the river and the grass and the Holloway. He is cold to his core and shocked and terrified and he cannot tear his eyes from the dark shape waiting for him in the garden.

It sits motionless at the end of the treehouse’s rope ladder. It sits on large bony haunches, facing him, with a protruding chest and one forepaw raised. Its eyes are dark pools of staring intensity, one on each side of its skull-like, elongated face.

Jesse steps towards it, one foot landing heavily and clumsily after the other. His exhaustion makes him feel inhuman, separate, disassociated from reality. It doesn’t even feel that strange that a black hare led him to Paddy’s treehouse.

His head is nodding on his neck. Somehow he reaches for the rope ladder and grasps it with sore, aching hands, while keeping his eyes on the hare.

He has never seen such a strange and beautiful creature. The white one was a surprise but this one seems other worldly. It stares back at him, its long nostrils opening and closing – its lean athletic body perfectly still, yet poised to run. Jesse feels like it could vanish in a fraction of a second should it choose to.

‘You want me to go up there?’ he croaks in a whisper and he somehow feels that it does.

He starts to climb the rope though his wrecked body does not make it easy for him. It feels like a wet sack of potatoes hanging from his arms.

The black hare watches him climb and finally he feels the wooden base against his knees and he sits down and turns around and stares back at the hare.

It’s still there. Still perfectly haunting like it’s a statue or a shadow of one.

It’s long ears are erect and one swivels, picking up sound. Jesse stares at it, mesmerised. Its fur is as dark as night, as black as coal. It is still staring at him as he lies down on his belly and drags a blanket over himself. He feels some of the tension leave his body and a great sigh works through him and as his chin rests on his folded arms, he feels like there is something he recognises in the hare’s eyes.

Jesse’s head jerks up. ‘Paddy?’

The hare turns and is gone.

Thanks for reading!

Please feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you thought of this latest chapter.

NOTE: Please remember this is NOT the finished version of Black Hare Valley Book 1. This book has not been to my editor yet or even my beta readers. There will be typos, grammatical mistakes, and sentences that need rewriting.

COMING NEXT THURSDAY: Chapter Fifteen “Hideout”