She slams the car’s door, then watches as it pulls away, its exhaust fumes cutting into the back of her throat as it disappears down the road, leaving her with only her large case and the trepidation churning in her stomach. For a moment she considers running after it, waving it to a stop, so she can climb back into the relative safety of its confines. But it is too late for that now. So instead, she watches the purple vapour gradually dissipate until, like the car, it is no longer visible, and the whole episode might have been little more than a figment of her imagination.
She lets out the breath she has been holding and bends to pick up the suitcase at her feet. Its weight drags her down, as if it too is intent on anchoring her to the spot. This will not do. She lets out another breath, short and sharp this time, and thrusts out her chin with more determination than she feels, firmly telling herself this is the beginning of an adventure. She will see it through, come what may. There is no going back.
A shoulder-high flint wall borders the road, containing the dense woodland that stretches behind it. It is broken by two frost-cracked brick pillars that hail the start of a driveway, one of which bears a wooden sign announcing ‘Darkacre Hall’. No doubt it had once been pristine, a gleaming white background with ornately scrolled letters in glistening black paint, but now the wooden panel shows signs of rot, and what remains of the lettering has faded to shades of grey, so that it takes an educated guess to confirm she is in the right place. A pair of wrought-iron gates, bleeding rust from beneath their scraped epidermis, sag open either side, and as she approaches, she notes the tangled weeds entwined around their bottom edge, suggesting they have stood undisturbed for some time. She feels a stir of foreboding as she passes through them…
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