It's All Hallows' Eve, and you're gearing up for the most eventful night of your life. While young children are out trick-or-treating, you've made your way to the one house people always skip. It's the abandoned mansion, rumoured to be haunted.

Dared by your friends to spend a night in the haunted house, will you survive the night, or will you uncover the truth behind the rumours?

He drowned. That's what they say. On that terrible night, when the wind was blowing hard, he stood on the shore of the lake, darkness swimming around him. His hands fumbled with the knot around his middle until the gown came loose and fell in a pool around his feet. Then, he slipped into the oily water, staring into the green, murky depths, feeling the chill seeping into his bones. And then he dipped his head under.

When they drew him out, his skin was icy, eyes blank, lips blue.

That was the story Kelsey told us when we first became friends. The death of her brother that summer, a tragic suicide: a tale she told with streaming eyes and a running nose.

I remember her face now, though. Those large, doe eyes, glittering green in the moonlight. She'd bought those contacts cheaply on eBay, anything she could find to fit with her cat costume.

"Go into the house," she'd said. "I dare you."

Her words slapped me. And yet with a look round at the others, no one objected.

"The house where your brother died?" I replied, pulling the bag of sweets closer towards me as the biting wind whipped through the folds of my witch's cloak. "The one that's haunted?"

"Yes," Kelsey said, leaning forward so that her necklace slipped out from the inside of her collar, the small cross swinging from its chain.

She took my hand and led me to the gate. Our other friends trotted behind us faithfully; I felt like turning and telling them to speak up, but I knew none of them would. We were all Kelsey-bound.

The door loomed huge in front of us. It creaked as Kelsey's pale hand pushed it open.

"Laters, Lydia," she'd called and she took the sweets from my hands.

The last thing I saw was her sardonic smile as the door slammed closed behind me.

*

Somewhere to the left, a clock is ticking. Slow, deliberate, as though it's counting down the seconds until something, whatever that is.

Darkness swirls around my head, enveloping me in a cloud. Stumbling, I reach out to the wall, patting it down, palms slapping cold, cold plaster. And yet I can't find a light switch.

Thump.

I jerk my head upwards, scanning the ceiling, heart racing a little faster, but I can't see anything.

Tick tock, goes the clock to the left.

Something probably fell upstairs, I tell myself as I shake off the uneasiness. I pull myself up straighter, square my shoulders, and walk down the hallway.

I think I'm in a kitchen. Through the hazy black I can see the shape of the chairs, the sharp corners of the table, a small calendar hanging above the sink, the page turned to the month of June.

It's October, I remind myself, and then I remember what happened to Kelsey's brother and why they had to move out.

A bitter shiver runs through me.

Thump.

My breath catches in my throat. What was that noise? Again, I glance at the ceiling to where a chandelier is, tiny glass pieces suspended in mid-air. They clink together, swaying slightly in an invisible breeze, and I have this horrid, fleeting thought that they will drop on me at any moment.

There is a ringing silence.

Tick tock.

WHAM!

Something whistles past my ear and slams into something to the right of me. I whirl around, heart in my mouth, throat feeling so tight that it blocks the scream.

There, pinned on the twenty-third of June, is a knife. Its handle protrudes from the paper, blade sunk right into the wood.

Tick tock.

My hands are curled into fists.

THUNK! A second blade burrows into the cupboard door.

A scream rips itself from my throat and I jerk into action, half-stumbling, half-running towards the door, heart fluttering like a caged bird.

There are slams behind me, a gust of wind. I fling myself forward, scrabbling around blindly for anything.

Anything that will get me out of here.

Then I'm in another room, and the door slams closed with a bang.

I launch myself at it, throwing my entire weight at the door, but it doesn't budge. Wincing at the throbbing of my shoulder, I lean back, defeated.

Silence settles. I flick the switch behind me but there's no flood of light, only cold, cold darkness.

There's something in the air, an uneasiness that makes my skin prickle as I survey the room.

This is the lounge; it's obvious from the slope of the L-shaped sofa—a tatty one that hasn't been thrown out—the empty space in the corner where the television should be, and the mantelpiece above the fire, which is black and filled with soot.

I squint, moving closer to the shelf. In rows, the whole way along are tiny photo frames, each one deliberately propped up with care and precision.

Doubt rises within me. Why didn't Kelsey's family take them away? But I keep the question down because curiosity is not good in the dead of night. It only gets you killed.

But I feel a pull towards the photos and soon I'm rubbing off the particles of dust and peering through the glass. Family photos arise: holidays, birthdays, school photos, football team victories. I can see Jason in almost all of them; his blond, unkempt hair and laughing green eyes. Drawing them closer, I read the captions: Jason Bell, Under 12's Football Team, Jason blowing out his first candles, Jason Bell, Jason, JasonJasonJason, Jas—

The photo frame smashes in my hands, glass shattering and exploding within a metre radius. I cry out, stumble backward, shards crunching at my feet.

Behind me, the door clicks open.

I can feel the sweat forming on my hands and I wipe them on the pleat of my dress. Only when I do that I can feel them trembling.

"Who's there?" I call out.

Deadly silence.

Inching closer towards the door, I make out something. Sitting patiently on the carpet is a shovel, handle turned towards me.

Now I know.

There is something here.

Here.

With me.

My head feels like it's jammed with cotton wool, and I'm aware of a slight chill on the nape of my neck.

"What do you want me to do with it?" I say, breathless as I sink to the floor, shovel in my grip.

And I hear the clock again. To the left.

Tick tock.

What are you counting down for? Is something going to—?

Thumpthumpthumpthump! All the way along the hallway down towards the kitchen.

The floorboards creak in protest as I creep into the kitchen. I spin round, eyeing the cutlery drawer which has been yanked right open, but nothing sharp comes flying towards my face.

Hair on end, I realise what's happened.

The knife by the calendar has been wrenched out and now it lies on the tiles, wood shavings still stuck to the glinting blade, tell-tale marks of its actions.

Engraved in big, block capitals into the wooden cupboard door is the word:

DIG.

And then the knife rights itself, hovering perilously in the air. Swallowing, I take a step back, but it swings round in the direction of the garden and flings itself into the back door, landing with a 'thunk' on the doormat.

The wind is fierce once I step outside. It whips through my hair, entangling it, howling into the night. Shovel gripped tightly in my hand, I walk down the path, keeping a steely eye on the gate that leads beyond to the lake.

The lake.

The water greets me glinting in the moonlight, waves lapping greedily at the shore. Sand rustles, stones crunch underfoot, and yet my head is making the loudest of noises.

Shaking, I arrive at the headstone.

In loving memory of

Jason Bell

Loving Son

1999-2015

With one look at the ground surrounding it, I can see the huge X. That makes me think of the word carved into the cupboard and I shiver.

Dig. Like a pirate, I have to dig for the treasure.

The sand is coarse and it bites at my fingers. I scrape away at the pebbles, dirt filling the gap under my nails. When I adjust my grip on the shovel, it slips and slides because the sweat has finally taken over. It's well past midnight and I'm kneeling here as the icy wind slashes at me, and yet I can feel the heat radiating like fire.

It's not long before I hit solid bottom. And that's when my heart quickens pace because this is the part I've been dreading.

My hand catches on something. Muscles straining under the weight, I haul the lid up and over.

A putrid smell hits my nostrils and I fall back, my sleeve covering my nose.

Eyes shut.

I don't want to see his rotting body.

I don't know how long I stay there for, curled up by the side of a coffin, wind lacing my witch's costume. Only that my eyes fly open when I hear a noise.

Knocking and then footsteps.

The coffin is empty.

A body is lumbering towards the lake. His flesh is torn away in places, nails yellow. His eyes are sockets, dead things.

His gait changes. He falls back and now his legs are dragging along in the sand, arms flailing. A gurgling sound arises from his throat, which a rivulet of blood trickles down. And his fingers are outstretched, grasping at something near his neck.

A cross necklace.

He's not drowning himself. There is someone dragging him.

And suddenly there are hands on me, twisting my arms behind my back in such a way that I yowl in pain. The shovel lands on the ground.

"Hello, Lydia," says someone with a sneer.

Kelsey's knee rams into my back, forcing us both forward into the sand. The waves swish around my ankles, slopping my socks and numbing my feet.

"What are you doing?" I mumble but I don't get very far because water splashes into my face, making me splutter.

"Did you enjoy your visit to the house?" Kelsey whispers. I can feel her tufty cat ears from here. "What about seeing my lovely brother reenact his death?"

Water fizzes up my nose. I try to wrench free but it's no use.

"Stop—"

"Stop? Oh, Lyds, you're just as bad as him. Expecting everyone to bow down to you." Her voice is laced with anger as she spits out the last sentence. "He got everything. Mum and Dad were so proud of him all the time. And what did I get? I got nothing."

I can see the murky depths. From somewhere far away, I hear Jason's last gurgle.

"He didn't commit suicide. He didn't go to the lake that night and slip into the water and let his gown fall to his feet. Instead, I did it. I killed him."

And now I see. The photographs, all of them of Jason. Not one of Kelsey. The necklace he tried to rip from her neck.

It was Kelsey.

My head slips into the water, her fingers around my neck.

And now I feel the water surrounding me, chilling me to a depth that I know I won't come back from. The oily, green water churning around me. Lungs bursting. Heart beating furiously.

When they draw me out, my skin is icy, eyes blank, lips blue.