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switched off the TV, went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. And by the time I went back into my room the sun was streaming in through the window. The shadows were all gone. I lay down on the bed and fell asleep.
    Aunt Belle was up before me. Aching to get back to normal. She looked better, showered and dressed in a smart blue dress and jacket, with her make-up and her wig on. ‘We’re going for a run in the car, honey,’ she announced. ‘Let’s go out for lunch. Is there anywhere round here I can get a decent hamburger?’
    We drove to one of the hotels further down the coast and sat on the terrace overlooking the water. From there we could see the island of Arran cloaked in mist.
    ‘You must be fed up with your old auntie, Tyler,’ she said over her hamburger (made fresh, chargrilled medium rare, just the way she liked it. I opted for chicken Caesar salad).
    ‘I could never be fed up with you, Aunt Belle,’ I assured her.
    ‘I think I’ll arrange for that realtor to come tomorrow, to take a look at the house.’
    ‘Realtor?’
    ‘What do you call them here? Estate agents?’
     
    It was late afternoon by the time we got home, and while Aunt Belle called the ‘realtor’ and arranged for someone to come the next day I tried to text my friends. None of them got through. Their mobiles had either been left at home, or they were in a place where there was no reception. I did miss not being able to talk to them every day. Later, Aunt Belle and I walked along the beach and sat on some rocks to watch the sun sink lower in the sky. It was that beautiful time between dark and light, when the sky is ablaze with colours, orange and purple and topaz. The gloaming, we call it here in Scotland. Such a lovely word.
    It had been a perfect day. Aunt Belle seemed almost back to her normal self and there had been no shadows frightening me. While Aunt Belle got ready for bed, I went into the kitchen to make her some hot chocolate. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I stood at the window looking out at the waves crashing up on to the beach. There was something bold and dramatic about this landscape. I would miss this house too when it was sold.
    I filled her cup and picked it up, ready to take it into her when I heard a sound in the hall, and a murmured voice. I called out, ‘Aunt Belle, is that you?’ There was no answer.
    I stepped to the kitchen door and gasped. There was an old lady in the hallway. Her white hair was wound in a bun at the top of her head and she was wearing an old-fashioned black coat and carrying a small case.
    ‘Why, my dear, this is lovely,’ she said softly. But not to me.
    ‘Excuse me, who are you?’ I asked her. She ignored me. She couldn’t see me, yet she was as real as I was. I took a step back and when I looked around, the hall was different. There was floral wallpaper, old-fashioned fittings, a claw-footed table of dark wood against the wall. It wasn’t our hall at all . . . yet, it was our hall.
    ‘I’m so glad you like it, Eleanor,’ a kind voice said, a gentle voice. But I couldn’t see who that voice belonged to. There was no one else there. No one, but this old lady, Eleanor.
    I reached out to touch her, that’s how close she was, but my fingers sank into nothing.
    Eleanor rubbed at the arm I had tried to touch, and she shivered. ‘I suddenly felt cold there,’ she said.
    The unseen voice said kindly, ‘I think there must be a draught somewhere. I’ll get it fixed.’
    ‘Oh, no need,’ Eleanor said. ‘You’re being too kind as it is.’
    And I knew then I was in the past, watching a scene from another time, just as I had been before when I helped Ben Kincaid. And I knew something else too and the thought chilled me. I knew I was the ghost, not Eleanor, not the unseen voice I could hear. It was me who was the ghost.
    But why was I seeing these things? There had to be a reason.
    ‘And this is your room,’ the kind voice said. ‘I hope you like it.’
    The door