'Heavens, William Elmes, if your mouth drops open any further, you might be able to fit one of Aggie's desserts in whole.'

William, who is standing just inside the doorway of Daniel's cottage, closes his mouth, but his eyes remain wide and full of shock.

'This is really where Mr. Carver lives?' he says, gazing about the room in wonder.

'And just what were you expecting?' I reply, with a quizzical brow. 'Something to rival the townhouses of Berkeley Square?'

William rolls his eyes, irritated. 'Well, of course not, but it's so, so... small. And are you quite sure it's not going to fall down around our ears, because from the outside it looks...'

'It is perfectly fine.' I purse my lips and find my gaze drifting to the now barren hearth, my face warming nevertheless at the thought of Daniel and I sitting here, heat generated by more than flame alone. 'In fact, I find it rather charming.' I sigh. 'Anyway, we are not here for you to give your unwanted opinion on the décor, but to find clues.'

I spy the stack of books by the window and hurry over, my eyes grazing the bindings for the one I had seen on my first visit here. The one that had inexplicably given rise to goosebumps.

Halfway down the pile, I see the distinctive dullened orange clothboard binding, gilt lettering on the spine and I carefully retrieve it, piling the discarded books into another stack.

The pentagram, I notice, has been hand-inked onto the spine, over where it faintly reads Godwin's Lives of the Necromancers. I touch my fingertips to the strange symbol, feeling a shiver pass through my bones as I do. It is the exact same symbol Daniel has inscribed within the pages of his Bible.

'This is it,' I whisper, 'this is the one.' Opening the cover, I read aloud the foreword script.

'Lives of the Necromancers or, an account of the most eminent persons in successive ages, who have claimed for themselves, or to whom has been imputed by others, the exercise of magical power. By William Godwin. London, 1834.'

'Goodness,' William remarks, wrinkling his nose. 'Suddenly Jane Eyre seems far more appealing.'

I glance at him, amused. 'And what would you know about Jane Eyre? Have you been stealing my books?'

William, who has the good grace to flush, glares at me and scoffs. 'As if I would. It's all girlish nonsense.'

I consider hitting him with the book, but considering the symbol on the spine, I am reluctant in case it imputes something dark upon him. 'Wait!' I exclaim, when I open the cover and turn the page and the next, eventually flicking through the whole book. 'The contents have been removed. Look! This is not Godwin's book. Someone has cut out the original text and replaced all the pages inside. William, this is a journal!'

I show it to him, pointing out where the original content has been carefully excised and the pages of a notebook glued in its place. Turning the pages again, I note leaf after leaf of neat, tidy script that looks remarkably alike to Daniel's handwriting. Another closer glance and I see that this is not Daniel's journal at all, but his uncle's – Joseph Hemsby.

I am surprised, I think, to discover the Sin-Eater possessed the art of turning his pen as beautifully as this, for from Daniel's account of the man, he was a merciless brute, who rarely, if ever, demonstrated any kindness towards his nephew. How could one be so cruel and yet manage to master the craft of writing in such a way as this?

'This journal – or whatever it is – belonged to the old Sin-Eater. See...' I point to the first page, which clearly demonstrates that the writing is the work of Mr. Hemsby.

'This does not make any sense,' William says, drawing close so he too can look at the pages. 'Why would he hide his journal inside another book?'

'Well, I dare say it must be because he feared his journal might be discovered and if that is the case, then whatever this book contains, he wanted it to remain secret.'

I flick through the pages, seeing a name I recognise. 'Look, here, he mentions the young woman, Edna Bates...' My gaze drinks in every word, my legs weakening as I follow the text. 'I don't understand...'

'Lily, what is it?'

I lower myself to the nearby footstool. 'The story is not as they said... my goodness.'

William shakes his head, perplexed. 'Who, Lillian?'

'Why, all of them,' I say, blinking with astonishment and a touch of fear which creeps unwelcome into my beating heart. 'Mama and Papa told me that Edna Bates was a girl who became obsessed with the Sin-Eater, and in turn, was cursed because she disobeyed the rules and did look upon him. It is said she grew sick and was found quite dead, her face the absolute picture of terror as if the Devil himself had visited her at her final hour. Mama and Papa seemed quite terrified that a similar fate might befall me. I questioned Daniel but he claimed that Edna had simply perished from influenza, but... oh William, she did not!'

I picture Mama's face then – the abject fear in her deathly mask, as if she too had been visited by the Devil as she attempted to claw her way back to the road. Was she? Or was there truly a murderer stalking us that evening?

William leans down to look, reading aloud from the page. 'Whatever folk may say – and they are saying a great many untruths – I did love Edna fiercely and she, I. Naturally, I was always convinced it would end in ruin for us both, but never did I envisage what fate had in store for her. My one regret is that I never protected her from the cold hands of Death. I was so keen to protect her in life, from all that was living and that could speak and accuse. I was so keen to determine what it was that connected us so, why she became afflicted as I do after each ritual, but never once did I believe I would have to protect her from the Beast and when he came, cruel and swift and unforgiving, I was not ready for it. Only now, when it is too late, am I ready to discover the truth behind it all and, in turn, protect those that remain by my side.'

'Lily, you are trembling.'

I look down at my hands and see they shake. 'The sickness I experienced after Grand-Papa's internment, all those years ago, it is similar to that which afflicts Daniel after he has performed the ritual. If I am to read this correctly, the same happened with Edna and Mr. Hemsby. What happened to her, William? And why did everyone lie about her fate, even Daniel who claimed she died from influenza?'

'It is possible he did not want to concern you?'

'Why? Because he afeared the same fate would befall me, as it did Edna?'

William frowns as if he does not believe in my theory, but I see a worry in his eyes he cannot hide. My brother has never been very good at concealing his emotions. 'I am sure it is not that. Whatever the reason, it is clear that Mr. Hemsby did not believe the Sin-Eater's curse was the cause of her death, and if that be the case, then what was? And who else did he seek to protect?'

I ponder his question. 'Well, the only other person who remained at his side, was Daniel himself, and yet Daniel says that his uncle was a cruel man who did not treat him well.'

My curious eyes consume the next few pages. 'Wait, hear this... They returned last night, as they have for the past five nights. I know what they want – my silence, my compliance, and preferably, my demise, no doubt, for who is more silent than the dead themselves? I will give them none of these things, regardless of any threat they whisper through the cracks in my windows and scream at my door like devilish banshees. These demons truly live without boundaries. Their will is tied to the Horned Beast, and they may claw at my resolve all they wish, but they know not with whom they deal. A true and godly man holds firm to his oaths, and I will never forsake the oath I made to my sister – may the Lord guide her journey now wherever she does roam, on Earth or in Heaven. Birthing the bastard child mayhap have sent her half-mad, but I will withstand no threat to my sister's boy and while there are days when I may struggle to look upon him – for there I see the face of her undoing – I will not let the Beast have him.'

'Heavens,' murmurs William. 'I think I do wish this was a Brontë book after all. Do you think Mr. Hemsby was mad?'

'Sadly not, in this case,' I say, grimly. 'Although I think I would half-prefer this to be the tale of a madman, rather than the cold truth. Daniel told me that someone was coming to Rectory Wood, despite the stories that this place and indeed, the Sin-Eater were both cursed. Do you think this is what he meant? That someone came here to threaten Mr. Hemsby and Daniel?'

I say someone, but it does not escape my notice that the Sin-Eater said they. It also does not escape my memory that Mr. Hawkstone had a photograph depicting himself, my father and others right here at Rectory Wood. Were they Mr. Hembsy's aggressors? Did they come here to threaten him, and if they did, then why? Why did they need his silence? I dare not think it, because if Mr. Hemsby was referring to them, then he also believed them to be in league with the Devil, and that, I cannot believe. Papa would never.

Would he?

'What is this?' William points to a passage on the next page. 'I don't like this, Lily. I don't like the sound of it at all.'

I read on.

'I am not sure how much more I can withstand. I always considered myself a man of endurance, but they persist in a way that forces me to believe they could play this game for eternity. All efforts to thwart their plans has failed thus far. Despite extensive research, hours and hours spent combing through ancient tomes and documents, I cannot find the answer. I grow exhausted of the hunt. My body is failing me. I am not an old man yet, but I think mayhap my heart and soul have both aged considerably since this game began. These eyes have witnessed too many horrors. This heart is haunted by the demise of my beloved Edna. I have failed her most dismally. My only hope now is to hide what they seek where they cannot discover its whereabouts, for even when I am gone from this world, time will be the key to holding the dark powers at bay. Henry David Thoreau said, 'as if you could kill time, without injuring eternity' and never a truer word was spoken. I must stop now. They will come soon, and I must be ready.'

The next page is blank. My heart sinks heavy as an anchor.

'But he was not ready, was he?' I say. 'This was his final entry. His final entry before he walked out into those woods and never returned. William, what did he see? What was so terrible that his heart failed him out there in the dark?'

When William does not reply, I look up to find him standing stiff and straight, his eyes wide as he looks out of the window.

'William? What is it?'

'Something is out there, Lily,' he whispers, his voice trembling. 'Something moves within the trees.'

'What?' I gasp, racing to the window, ignoring his pleas not to.

Everything is still. I scan the woodland, searching the treeline for any movement.

'I cannot see...'

'There!' William grasps my arm and gestures towards a break in the dense foliage.

I shriek, jumping back and clutching onto his coat.

Darkness moves there, a shifting creeping darkness that lurks under cover of the trees. My attention is drawn quickly to another spot, where the shadows too are converging. The closer I look, the more I see, my eyes darting from one place to the next until I know not where to look. They are everywhere. Moving cautiously forward to the glass, still grasping onto William, I watch open-mouthed as the shadows shift and move, writhing together, pulling apart, twisting, and crowding into every space until I can barely differentiate between tree and wraith.

A scraping, creaking noise emanates from somewhere above us and our heads snap upwards in horror. The sound comes again from a different location, and we spin around hearing the scrabbling, scratching noise arc towards the rear of the house.

'Something is on the roof!' William exclaims.

'But how can that be?'

The noise returns, louder this time, reverberating through the cottage as if something seeks to the tear the thatch from its rafters.

'What the Devil is that?' William cries, as the sound seems to thud and crash over the whole roof.

A tumultuous banging resonates from the kitchen, and I am frozen solid, my heart clattering inside my chest.

'Lily...' William gapes. 'Is there a back door?'

'I have no idea, I....' I start to say, but William is gone in a rush, charging towards the kitchen, and disappearing through the doorway. I hear a crash of noise, and chase after him, watching in astonishment as he pushes a rickety-looking dresser in front of a back door I never knew was there – a door which now shakes and rattles in its frame as if something seeks to force it open from the outside. The doors of the dresser fly open, crockery spilling out onto the floor and shattering into pieces.

Crunching over the splinters of pottery, William rushes back to me as the noise becomes a crescendo, vibrating through the walls and under our feet.

'Dear Lord!' I cry out as I fix my attention back to the window again, horrified to see the wall of darkness that now surrounds the cottage where the wraiths have joined together into a winding, twisted mass of ever-moving shadow. The black, bulbous mass pulsates, and I think I can see a legion of venomous eyes within its core and clawed hands reaching out, ravenous and wanting.

The whole forest moves.

It swoops at the cottage with voracious force and as it descends upon us, inky, oil-slick wings beat at its edges, powering its flight. Blackness envelops the windows, crushing against the glass and a flurry of viciously sharp beaks peck at it. Cracks splinter across the surface.

'William, the door!' I shriek and we both run to it as the darkness hits, shaking the whole cottage.

The force that hammers at the door is so powerful that it takes the both of us to stop it from opening, and even then, we struggle to keep it closed. I strain against it, trying to brace my feet against the floor, but the door creeps open an inch and the acrid stench of sulphur snakes into the room.

'Keep pushing!' William shouts against the storm which now does battle outside, the screeching winds whipping against every clay brick and tile and every inch of thatch as if it means to pull this whole structure apart.

'I'm trying!' I cry through gritted teeth as I push my back against it, desperate to keep the wraiths at bay. The sulphurous odour stings my eyes, clogging my throat. Tears stream down my face, and I close my eyes, praying that this will end, praying for this monstrous entity to give up and yet Mr. Hemsby's words haunt me still.

They persist in a way that forces me to believe they could play this game for eternity.

I cannot bear this for an eternity. I cannot. How can we fight against this? How can we possibly hope to endure, where the Sin-Eater, with all his knowledge and experience, failed?

When something brushes lightly against my face, my eyes fly open.

The moth dances, agitating the air in front of my nose.

Even as I continue to push as hard as I can against the door, I am transfixed by the insect, its odd black and red wings fluttering gently and I cannot help but follow its movements as it flurries through the air, as if caught on a light spring breeze.

Beside me, William is chanting the Lord's Prayer over and over, in between sobs, and I want to comfort him and tell him that this will end, that we will prevail, because suddenly I feel it so keenly. A hurricane rages outside, one that seeks to harm us, tear us to pieces, peck at our flesh as if we were carrion, and yet a strange sense of calm washes over my skin. I am spellbound by the moth which now flutters around the clock on the mantelpiece, its small body belying its own fragility as it beats against the clock face again and again.

Without warning, the dark storm instantly dissipates, and everything stills. Nothing hammers against the door. No creatures scratch and tear at the roof. Nothing crushes against the window.

Everything is as it was, and the world is silent once more.

Silent except for the strange ticking of the broken clock and the soft patter of the moth as it continues to beat against the clock face.

'H-has it stopped? Heavens, Lily, has it gone?'

I glance at the window and see nothing but woodland through the fractured glass. Nothing moves. No shadows linger. In fact, hazy afternoon sunshine breaks through gaps in the treetops, light dancing on the ground.

It truly is as if nothing ever happened.

'Yes,' I say. 'I think it has.'

William flops to the floor, his exhausted body folding, legs collapsing beneath him. With his head in his hands, he wipes at his tears, cuffing his nose.

'As if you could kill time, without injuring eternity,' I whisper, staring at the moth.

William raises his head, his eyes clouded with confusion.

I gesture to where the moth flutters.

'Time will be the key!' I say. 'That's it! That's what Joseph meant!'

'Lily, have you lost your mind?' William says, staring at me wide-eyed as I first rush to the window, looking out to be sure that whatever assailed us here has now gone. On the windowsill sits one black crow feather, a warning mayhap, but I see and feel nothing sinister lurking outside.

At the mantelpiece, I reach for the clock, gazing in wonder as the moth rises, dancing above my head.

The carriage clock is a beautiful piece, despite its slow mechanism, gilt brass with a cream dial. One of the side panels is porcelain with a painted image of young woman, with curls as dark as Daniel's, her mouth set in the same serious line as his. On the other side, the opposing porcelain panel has been replaced with a decorative brass piece that has a slightly brighter hue than the rest of the metal as if it were added later and was not part of the original timepiece.

'Lillian?' William's worried voice rouses me from my examination of the clock.

'This clock is broken,' I say, shaking it at him before dashing it violently to the floor, watching as it smashes into pieces. Something catches my eye within the ruins, and I reach down, pulling it free from the metal innards of cogs and springs, careful not to snag my fingertips on the shattered glass of the case.

'Time will be the key to holding the dark powers at bay,' I repeat to William, brandishing the small key that had been concealed inside the clock mechanism. 'There was always something wrong with this clock. I noticed it the very first time I set eyes upon it. It was as if something was not quite right inside. It ticked in a very odd way, just ever so slightly out of sync and it bothered me so. I knew something was strange about it and I was correct. This is what Mr. Hemsby was hiding. A key! But a key for what exactly?'

William scrambles to his feet and rushes to my side, his face dropping, his skin bleached of all colour. He stares at the key as if he is looking at a ghost.

'I have seen this decoration before,' he croaks, brushing his fingertips against the bow of the key which looks almost like a skull.

'What on Earth do you mean? Where have you seen it?'

'A box,' he replies, swallowing hard as if it hurts to do so. 'A locked box with a keyhole that bears the exact same decoration.'

I stare at him, dumb founded. 'A box? But where, William?'

My brother looks at me then and I feel my resolve cracking, fracturing as if it is being pecked at by a thousand vicious crow beaks. The fissures lengthen, multiply, split me apart.

'Papa's study,' he whispers. 'Lillian, the box is in Papa's study.'