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A thud from upstairs to his left. He swung round, instinctively pointing the imager at the sound. A ceiling rippled back. An ordinary colour-soaked ceiling.

He turned and took the stairs, quicker now, still keeping to the edge but not checking the imager. Not yet. He stopped a few steps from the next floor, reached out and placed the imager on the landing floor, turning it to point down the left-hand corridor, tilting and angling the display screen back towards him. The corridor snapped into focus, psychedelic but sharp.

And empty.

He rotated the imager to point down the right-hand corridor. Also empty.

Another thud. Closer this time. One of the rooms to the left. Maybe front, maybe back—he couldn't tell.

He scooped up the imager, crept along the corridor, hunching down, his eyes glued to the display screen. He paused at the first set of doors. One left, one right, both open. He held out the imager and scanned into both rooms. Nothing. He leaned further in, stretching to scan behind the doors. Still nothing. A light from a passing car tracked across the ceiling then disappeared. Darkness and silence.

Thud. Closer still. It had to be from the next room. The next room at the front.

Back into the corridor, hunching lower still. Wasn't the White Room along this corridor? He'd been told the third door from the stairs. That's where he'd set up his equipment. What if they'd told him wrong? Or included the door at the top of the stairs in their count?

Had he been monitoring the wrong room?

The imager shook in his hands. Nerves, excitement, the sudden appreciation that he was alone in a dark, deserted old house.

With a history of death and hauntings.

Thud. Or was that more of a bang? He fought to place the sound. Wood striking wood? A door banging?

He edged closer, colours dancing in the monitor, a few more yards, feet . . . He froze, then slowly bent his legs, sliding his back down the wall into a squatting position. His hand reached out, placed the imager on the floor to his right as noiselessly as he could, just clear of the door jamb and pointing into the room.

The display screen filled with colour. Something was inside. Something he couldn't quite make out. He narrowed his eyes, peered, leaned as close as he dare. The screen showed a mass of colour. Not moving but complex—a large projection into higher dimensional space but too obscured to be recognisable. Was it a ghost?

A rush of cold air came from the room. Nick swallowed, his eyes fixed on the screen. If anything started to move towards the door . . .

Bang. Nick jumped. Definitely a bang this time. From well inside the room. And was that something moving on the screen? Something at the rear by the windows.

He steeled himself, reached out and grabbed the imager. He needed a shot from another angle. And he wanted to be on his feet—just in case. He pushed himself upright and held the imager out at shoulder height into the doorway. Whatever had been moving had stopped. And the mass of immobile colour was now at floor level, not very tall but long, a few feet from the door.

Shit! He couldn't keep his hands still. The image danced and rippled. Did it look human? A second ago he was almost sure but now . . .

It would have to be adult by its size but why was it lying on the ground? Weren't apparitions supposed to walk? Or was he totally misreading the image?

He closed his eyes for a long second, took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway.

His eyes flicked between the screen and the grey murk that filled the doorway. He could see a shadow, a slightly darker grey outline on the floor. And a mass of orange, yellow and red from the screen.

Something was lying on the floor.

There was a bang and another rush of cold air. Nick jumped, pointing the imager at the sound. A window? An open window banging in the wind?

His hand steadied for a second. Colours stopped dancing. It had to be a window. But they'd all been locked. He'd checked them himself only a few days ago.

His attention switched back to the shape by the door. Was it a person? A tramp or junkie looking for a place to crash for the night? The shape looked right. But shouldn't there be some movement? Breathing, a sound?

He had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling. He felt for the light switch, flicked it on and . . .

Froze. A man's body lay sprawled on the floor, face upwards.

His nose was missing.

Panic! Pendennis, the bitten off nose was his trademark. He must have escaped. Was he still here?

Nick threw himself back against the open door, slamming it against the wall, darting glances left and right. What if Peter was still in the building? Hiding. Wasn't it likely? The body was still in one piece. Pendennis always stayed to cut them up.

He forced himself to look at the body. It wasn't just the nose. Both eyes had been gouged out. And—he swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue—both ears were either missing or obscured by blood. Thoughts of Louise percolated to mind – that madman clamped to her ear. It had to be Pendennis. The ears, the nose . . .

And the hands. Both had been severed.

He vomited. Uncontrollably. Then ran, flapping his hands at light switches but not stopping if he missed, ducking at the slightest noise—real or imagined—running for his life, stumbling, tripping, throwing himself down the stairs. He had to get out. He had to get out now!

The front door wouldn't open. He dropped the imager, grabbed the door handle with both hands—turned, pulled, rattled and wrenched the door open. Running again, the wind cold against his face, gravel crunching beneath his feet. Not safe yet. He needed open spaces, people, streetlights. Pendennis could be anywhere—hiding in the house, the grounds, that shadow by the gate.

He flew across the road, not heeding the traffic, ran to the nearest streetlight and turned, breathing hard. No sign of Pendennis. Yet.

He activated his phone, shaking fingers pressing the buttons at his wrist. "Police," he said, his voice ragged. "Now! There's been a murder at Framlingham Hall."

He called Louise next. No answer. Shit! Shit! Shit! Was Pendennis already there? Was that where he'd come from?

A sudden noise made him jump. Something metallic being knocked over. The wind, a cat, Pendennis? He ran to the next street light. Keep moving. Keep visible. Maybe flag down a car?

Who'd stop for a wild arm-waving stranger? He wouldn't. Not at night.

On to the next street light. Then the next. Another call to Louise. Still no answer but he'd leave a message.

"Call me. Lock all your doors and windows. Don't answer your door to anyone. Pendennis has escaped."

He checked his watch. How long would the police take? Was that a siren?

Five minutes later the police arrived, lights flashing, siren wailing. He tried to flag them down but they drove past, stopping outside the Hall gate. He crossed over and ran towards them, calling. He had to warn them.

They were outside when he caught up to them. Two uniformed officers. Was that enough?

"Stop!" he shouted, slowing to a breathless halt. "He might still be in there."

"Who?" said the older of the two officers, eyeing Nick suspiciously.

"Pendennis," said Nick. "He's escaped."

The two policemen looked at each other. "Peter Pendennis?"

"Yes, Peter Pendennis. Look, there's a body in there with its nose ripped off. Who does that remind you of? And he's severed both hands. He must have been cutting the body up when I disturbed him. He might still be in there."

All three men turned to look at the house. It sat grey and silent, set back from the road and bathed in shadow.

The two policemen conferred. One went back to the vehicle. Hopefully to call for back up. The other switched on his lapel recorder.

"Now, sir, for the record, what's your name?"

Nick gave his statement, glancing towards the house whenever he thought he heard a sound or caught a flash of something moving out of the corner of his eye.

The other policemen called over from the car. "Nothing on the system about Pendennis breaking loose."

"Call Upper Heywood," said Nick. "They might not have missed him yet. And get a car over to Lower Hillside Farm, Mickleton. Check that Louise Callander's okay. Pendennis threatened her. He attacked her this afternoon."

Another shared glance between the two officers, followed by a click as the lapel recorder was turned off.

"I think you should show us the body first."

Great, thought Nick. They don't believe me. "Ring Upper Heywood. They'll confirm it. Or the A&E at Oxford General. They treated her."

A hand propelled him from behind. They were going to force him back into the house. Playing into Pendennis's hands, they were going to walk in unprepared.

"At least arm yourselves," he begged. "He could be anywhere."

The older policeman patted the baton strapped to his belt. "Don't worry, sir. Anyone gets out of order . . . we know what to do."

Even better, not only didn't they believe him but they were getting ready to take him round the back and play bad cop, bad cop on his ribs.

"I'm telling the truth!"

"Of course you are, sir."

They walked in silence. Nick pushed from behind into the lead, steering a course along the exact centre of the gravel drive, wary of every shrub and shadow. He skirted past his van, reached the open door and ushered the officers through.

"Second floor, turn left, second door on your right."

"We'll follow you."

Nick closed his eyes. He could be walking to his death. No one would care. The police would blame Pendennis. Our officers couldn't have foreseen the danger. A tragic turn of events for all concerned.

Not that it was much safer on the porch. Pendennis could be under the van, waiting for the police to move off.

He took a deep breath and pushed the front door wider. At least the lights were still on. He stepped though, his eyes zigzagging, trying to cover every inch of the hallway. Empty. Except for the imager he'd dropped earlier. He bent down to pick it up.

"Is that a camera?"

"Yes, it's mine. I dropped it earlier." He set it down on a windowsill and looked towards the stairs.

"The police are here," he shouted. "More are on their way."

"Come on," said the younger officer, nudging Nick in the back. "The sooner you show us this body the sooner you can get out of here."

Nick began the climb, trying to think positively. At least with the lights on, anyone hiding would cast a shadow. That thought took him to the first half-landing where another thought was waiting. What if Peter was hiding behind a door or perched on an upstairs banister waiting to jump on him from above.

Nick crouched instinctively, and looked up. Nothing.

"What's the matter?" said a voice from behind.

"Nothing," he lied. What was the point? They wouldn't take him seriously until they saw the body. Or Pendennis jumped them. Scenes from every horror film he'd ever watched, fluttered to mind. The hero walking into a trap. Deranged killer lurking in the shadows. Cue suspenseful music, cue unexpected death. What was the betting if he turned around now he'd find only one officer left? The other garrotted and whisked silently away, only to reappear in a future scene, cut up and flayed.

He'd never—ever—watch another horror film again.

He listened, straining to hear two footfalls following his.

Or was one Peter's?

He glanced back—he had to. Two policemen were in his wake.

For now.

Calm down. You're nearly there. All the lights are on. Pendennis'll be miles away by now.

Encouraging words. But one floor away was a mutilated body. Dozens of hiding places in between. And a crazed killer who could be hiding behind every door.

"Come on," urged a voice from behind. "We haven't got all night."

Nick ascended, swallowing hard, the first floor landing approaching, his eyes darted from side to side. Was that a shadow? Was that a footstep?

He hovered on the top stair then took off, grabbing onto the handrail and pulling himself across the landing and up onto the next flight of stairs, away from every door and hiding place, as quick as he could.

Then slowed. Deep breaths. Nearly there. One flight of stairs, one corridor and five doors to go. Another glance back. Still two policemen behind him. No crazed axe-man rushing at them from the shadows.

Yet.

More deep breaths. His mouth was dry and why had that window stopped banging? Had the wind dropped? Or had someone closed it?

A creak made him start. He looked up, trying to judge if it came from the attic or the landing above. Roof timbers settling or a floorboard shifting under a killer's bloodstained foot?

Calm down. One step at a time. Nearly there.

Up he went, hugging the wall, counting down the remaining steps. Nine, eight, seven. The landing looming, a moth fluttering around the bare light bulb at the head of the stairs. Three, two . . .

One.

He stopped. Every sense on alert – the slightest sound, the smallest movement.

The window banged.

He closed his eyes, one last deep breath and...

He was moving—swiftly, purposefully—along the corridor, jumping past the open doors, not pausing to think or breathe, just aiming for the other side of that doorway, that room.

He glanced inside as he leapt by. It was still there, lying on the floor. For one awful moment he'd expected to find it gone. But it wasn't.

"It's in there," he said, pointing into the room. "The vomit's mine."

It was a relief to be believed. Suddenly, action was taken. Back up was requested, CID, forensics. A car was sent to check on Louise. And, hopefully, Upper Heywood too. Within twenty minutes the Hall was alive with people and light and voices and away went the fear. Pendennis would be miles away by now.

Time dragged. Nick was put in the room across the corridor and told to wait, someone would interview him later. All his requests to be allowed to wait downstairs so he could check on his work were denied.

Great. Forty minutes ago he was on the verge of two major discoveries. Now, he was on the verge of none. The house crawling with heavy-handed coppers, poking into everything. What if someone pressed a reset button and cleared all his data?