Unfortunately, it's not Felix on the other side of the door.

There's a rake-thin woman in a long black dress standing in the doorway. Even though her face is concealed by a red scarf wrapped around her head like a shawl, I can tell immediately that she's really old.

She's holding a basket filled to the brim with gleaming red apples. A gnarled hand reaches into the basket and strokes one of the apples, the fingers lazily tracing the plump crimson fruit. The old woman appears to be muttering something over and over again. It sounds like the word fated, or maybe hated.

Nope, not happening. It's too early for Halloween.

I start closing the door, ready to lock it and run upstairs, possibly even call 911.

Just before the door shuts, I hear a voice say my name.

"Ashling?"

She pushes the scarf back, revealing a familiar face.

It's my grandmother's best friend, Bea.

I used to see her all the time before my gran passed away.

There was a time when my parents were setting up Biblio – getting the restaurant off the ground, establishing themselves in the Portland culinary scene – where I'd spend most afternoons and some evenings at gran's house.

Bea used to visit a couple of times a week, even though she was always super busy managing The Rose Inn.

I spent so much time with Bea throughout my childhood that I eventually started thinking of her as some sort of great-aunt. But ever since gran died earlier this year, I've barely seen her. In fact, the last time I actually spoke to her was at gran's funeral.

Standing before me now with dark circles under her eyes and her long gray hair all tangled up in an unruly mess, she looks like she's aged twenty years since then.

And there's something wrong with her eyes. There's a glassiness in her gaze – like she's looking through me, rather than at me.

Before I can react, she drops the basket with a loud thud. Apples roll out across the front porch as she swoops forward through the doorway and wraps me up in a tight embrace.

"It's so good to see you again sweetheart," Bea says. She squeezes me tighter before leaning down to gather up the spilled apples. "It's been way too long. Are your parents home?"

"They're at the restaurant," I say.

"Oh, I see," she says. "I suppose that's no surprise. Biblio's doing so well nowadays, isn't it? Imogen would be proud."

I feel my chest tighten at the sound of my gran's name.

"Anyhow, mind if I come in?" She asks, peering into the hallway behind me. "I wanted to drop these off, and the walk was longer than I expected."

She holds up the basket, and I realize that her arms are trembling slightly under its weight. There must be at least twenty apples in there, and she's looking more fragile than I've ever seen her before.

I quickly reach out and take the basket from her, feeling terrible for not noticing before.

Even though she gave me one hell of a fright, it's only Bea after all.

"Of course, come in," I say. "Can I get you some tea? Or some coffee?"

"No, I'll pass on that," she says, gliding suddenly into the hallway much faster than she looks capable of moving. "I'll just sit down a moment."

I follow her through to the living room, where she settles down in an armchair. I perch on the sofa, placing the basket of apples on the floor between us.

"I thought your mom would like them. Crisp and sweet. They're from the same one," Bea says, staring down at the basket. "You remember climbing it? You were so little then."

It takes me a second to realize she's talking about the huge apple tree behind her house. So many golden summers were spent under that tree, me lying on my back staring up at its leafy boughs while gran and Bea set up their easels in the garden and spent the afternoon painting.

"So little... just a sweet little thing..." she says quietly, almost as if to herself.

"It's been a while since I last saw you," I say, stating the obvious but at a total loss for words.

Think. Ask her how she's been doing. Ask about the hotel. Talk about the weather. Anything.

"How are the boys keeping?" She blurts out suddenly.

"The boys?" I repeat.

"Yes, the boys," she says, her face creasing into a faraway smile. "Those lovely lads renting my little house of music out in the forest."

Of course. Felix said that Bea owns the cabin and offered it to Fable when they were staying at the Rose Inn during their tour. I wonder what other secrets gran’s BFF is hiding.

"I guess it's about time," she says. "Has it started yet?"

"Has what started yet?" I say, feeling more confused than ever.

She gives me a strange half smile, and chuckles quietly to herself.

"The reason they came here, sweetheart," she says. "You're involved, after all. You should know. Has it started?"

"I don't... understand..." I say.

"The music," she says. "Have they started working on the album?"

Realization dawns on me.

"No, not exactly," I say. "Or... sort of, I think. I'm meant to help with some of the acoustic guitar, but things have been kind of–"

"Yes, yes, better get a move on then," she says, interrupting me. "Have you seen the guest book yet?"

"No," I say, wondering where on earth this is leading.

"It's downstairs. Have a look next time you're there," she says. "We had some wild nights in that cabin, Imogen and me. Before she met your grandpa, of course. Did you know it was her idea to convert it into a recording studio?"

I shake my head, and she continues.

"Back in the sixties, Portland was the place for bands and musicians. Still is. But back then, it was like everyone who was anyone wanted to record an album here. In those days it was all about connecting with nature, the Flower Children and hippies and so on. So Imogen had the smart idea of converting my grandfather's hunting cabin into a private haven for visiting musicians, far from the press and the fans."

"It was a hunting cabin?" I ask incredulously.

"Yes, up until hunting in the forest was banned in the twenties," she says. "It was in such a state when we got started on it. The whole renovation had to be done on the sly. We got contractors to come in from out of town. Painting, plumbing, everything. Didn't want anyone around here to know our secret."

I nod, wondering why she's telling me all this.

"Even some of the woodwork and the stained glass windows... did you know, your gran made those?" She's staring intently at me now, and her glazed expression looks almost feverish, ecstatic. "Some of the paintings are hers' as well.

That explains why the cabin feels so familiar. It's filled with gran. With her art. I really should have realized it sooner.

"Did you see silver girl yet?" She asks. "And the circle?"

I shake my head, wondering if Bea's age is maybe catching up with her.

She's making no sense. Unless... maybe she's talking about the huge stained glass window in the cabin's living room. The one with the silver-tailed mermaid surrounded by a circle of guys. Why would she be asking about that?

As I picture it, I feel the same old familiar prickling pain shoot through my scar. It's not as intense as usual, but I flinch, trying to hide it from Bea.

Her eyes widen, and she leans forward in her chair. She nods, and suddenly she springs to her feet, faster than any eighty-year-old woman should be able to move.

"I'll let myself out," she says, hurrying to the front door.

It takes me second to get past my shock. I run after her, but by the time I get onto the sidewalk, she's already far in the distance, disappearing up the hill around the corner of our street.

That's... impossible. It's at least a hundred meters away. A whole football field. Even if I ran, it would take me at least ten seconds to get there. But she got there in a split second... and she's an old lady.

Right, that's it. I'm officially losing my mind.

I think about calling my mom, but that seems pointless. What would I tell her anyway? Gran's bestie is acting weird and she can run faster than an Olympic athlete?

No. I just need to get some sleep. It'll all make sense in the morning.

Somehow.

So I go back inside, lock all the doors, curl up in bed and fall into a deep, dark dream.