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‘That’s right,’ Ambrose said.

‘Not that anyone is saying Clive Dawkins uses that land,’ Lars continued. ‘It was officially sold. However, there are rumours that he allows the passage of certain types of people through his park and into that patch of forest that he’s already sold off once, in order to indulge in some rather malfeasant practices.’

Kelly frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean? Are you saying that there are people doing strange things up in those woods? The woods behind the Carnival of Horrors?’

‘Carnival of Horrors by name, Carnival of Horrors by nature,’ Lars said, to which Ambrose gave a sage nod.

Behind the bar, Martin, who had been listening with an amused look on his face, gave a smirk.

‘All I’m saying,’ Lars said, ‘is that while on the surface the Carnival of Horrors might look like a simple theme park, underneath, it has a far more sinister tone.’

‘Did you know that on the very site on which that park now stands, there was once an old mansion and its grounds? Some say the ruins of the main building can still be found back there among the trees. And it was owned by a landowner believed to have once been swindled out of a fortune by Clive’s great-great-grandfather.

‘And the reason that he was swindled was because Clive’s great-great-grandmother was a practitioner of the dark arts.’

Ambrose rubbed the bridge of his nose and then nodded.

‘Lars speaks the truth,’ he said. ‘Clive Dawkins’ great-great-grandmother was none other than a witch. And some are saying that his disappearance is the culmination of a decades-old curse placed upon his family by the man whose land was unfairly stolen from him.’

Kelly found herself drinking a little bit too much as she grilled Lars and Ambrose on what they might or might not know about the disappearance of Clive Dawkins.

In truth, they didn’t actually seem to know anything. Everything they had to say was idle speculation, lots of hearsay, and all manner of rumours involving curses, black magic, witches’ covens, and revenge plots, none of which, from what Kelly could tell, had any actual grounding in reality.

Lars, the supposed descendant of Vikings, and Ambrose, the paranormal investigator, were basically just a pair of likely lads who enjoyed a good yarn and running their mouths over a few pints of ale. Really, they were entertaining enough, so Kelly couldn’t see anything wrong with it.

However, when Martin rang the bell for last orders, pointing out that at midnight he needed to turn into a bat and go and terrorise the local community, she found herself rather tipsy as she headed up the stairs to her room.

About halfway up, she had a sudden dizzy spell. Reaching out for the banister to steady herself, she stumbled a little. When the feeling cleared, she realised that she had her foot on the forbidden step.

She stared at the plaque on the wall, looked down at her foot, quite clearly leaving an impression in the old carpet, then quickly withdrew it, smoothed the carpet down, and headed up to bed.

She washed her face and brushed her teeth, got changed, and then jumped into bed. She was asleep before she knew it.

Then suddenly, she found herself blinking awake, feeling a little groggy, rolling over in the dark, her eyes adjusting to the glint of moonlight coming in through a crack in the curtains.

Something had awakened her.

But she had no idea what.

She sat up, trying to get her bearings, and glanced at the clock beside her bed. The digital display read 2:59 a.m.

She wiped some sleep from her eyes, scratched her forehead, and then lay back down, only for, almost the moment her head touched the pillow, a sharp knock to come at the bedroom door.

Alarmed, she sat up in bed and pulled the covers back, wondering if she was still dreaming.

But then the knock came again.

This time she knew that she had definitely heard something because, at the same moment, she heard the creak of floorboards outside her room.

Certainly not a ghost then.

But who could it be?

She tried to remember whether or not she had locked her door.

Then, to her horror, the door began to rattle as something shook it from the other side.

The handle turned.