The steady drone of tyres speeding over asphalt is the only sound I can hear as I stare out at the dark woods. Mum hadn't turned on the radio when we left my cousin's house.

"Mummy needs to concentrate, Annie," she'd said. It was what she always said whenever she drove in the dark. She usually avoided it where she could, but it had taken longer than usual to get back from St. Bees and drop Ali at home. Then Auntie Jo had started talking, and when Auntie Jo started talking it could be hours before she stopped.

I should be asleep by now, it's way past my bedtime, but - despite the lull of the tyres on the road, and the sweeping bends as we moved through the countryside – I couldn't sleep. Whether it was the sugar from the ice cream today, or the stream of new memories playing through my head, I hadn't been able to drift off. Instead, my short legs swung against the leather of the back seat as I stared out into the darkness.

It was pitch black outside, uncomfortably dark. The kind of darkness that played with your imagination, swirling and morphing into creatures and things that went bump in the night. With morbid curiosity, I watched as the car's headlights lit just enough to see around us, just enough to make trees and shrubs jump out of the darkness, bright and ghoulish against the gloom, before vanishing again.

Was that a face? A hand? Are those fangs? Claws? Are we being chased?

An overreactive imagination, that's what Mum said I had. It could turn creaky floorboards, moaning as the house cooled after midnight, into footsteps heading towards my bedroom. More than once it had tricked me into thinking that the soft toys piled on the yellow reading chair were actually my Grandma Mary watching me while I slept. An overactive imagination, Mum would say with a sigh, just because I saw things – believed in things - she couldn't.

I tore my curious eyes from the passenger window and looked towards Mum. Even with her face set forward and blank with concentration, she was beautiful. But maybe all daughters thought that. One day, when I grew up, I wanted to look just like her. I wanted her sleek chestnut hair, the kind that shone red when the sun hit it just right. Mine was mousy brown, fluffy, and full of kinks. And my eyes, far too much like my Dad's cool blue, lacked the warm turquoise my Mum's had, like the colour of the sea when we went to Greece. Her skin was the colour of golden syrup, just like the one she drizzled on my pancakes every year. She was everything warm and comforting and safe.

Her eyes caught mine in the rear-view mirror and crinkled with a smile. The navy eyeliner she always wore, just in the outer corners, was smudged and creased with tiredness.

"You should be asleep, Annabella-ding-dong," she mused, eyes flitting to the road.

"I can't," I mumbled and flashed a glance out of the window. My heart fluttered as monsters raced out of the black towards us before disappearing from view, replaced by trees, so tall they had no end.

"Daddy's home from America tomorrow. You don't want to be all tired and grumpy when we pick him up from the airport." Her hands reached for the heating dial, turning it up and directing the warmth to the back of the car. "Try and get some sleep."

The vent whispered to life and with it the thick damp smell of the woods drifted on the warm air. It reminded me of long autumn days playing in the thicket with my cousin Ali, gathering conkers and building forts from fallen branches. It was the heady scent of rain-soaked peat and rotting amber leaves that would always be connected to this part of the world.

Memory enveloped around me, filling my mind with days gone by as the heat lulled me to sleep. Thoughts of monsters and ghouls and wraiths hiding in the shadows faded away, held at bay by the scent of the woods.

The aroma, once faint and comforting, was now pungent, cloying. My body shifted, except it wasn't that of a child. Not anymore.

The smooth sturdy fabric of the seatbelt, where my head had rested, had disappeared. Instead, my neck twinged with pain and my head pounded, pulsing and complaining at the way gravity pulled it forward.

Another ragged breath pulled cool, wet air into my lungs. With it, the memory of the car, of my mother and that last drive we took together before the crash, receded back. Into the void, a rush of consciousness followed.

R in my kitchen, the fight, the feeling of the wooden door bruising my back as he pounded against it. The distant, shrill, chirp of the dial tone before everything went black. That last thought didn't make sense, not with the smell surrounding me.

Clawing through the haze, I pieced myself back together, pushing my consciousness out along tingling limbs. Muscles awakened, and with them, my nerves screamed. My hands had been bound behind my back, and my ankles were lashed with rope, keeping me bound to a wooden chair. With slow, dazed movements I shifted, testing the ropes. The tight bindings chafed against my skin. I tugged harder, and with a warning bite the ropes gnawed at my skin.

I scanned around me with bleary eyes.

I recognised this place. It was the old Woodland Conservation Centre, far out in the Northumberland countryside. We used to come here with Ali, Auntie Jo and her three Spaniels. We'd walk along the river, or weave through the woodland, until the dogs had burned off their abundance of energy. After, we'd always come back here. My Mother would have a black coffee, my Auntie a tea, and me and Ali would devour cherry scones, feeding odd bits to the dogs while they rested at our feet.

That place, and this one were worlds apart. The vaulted ceiling above had been clad with orange pine the last time I was here, matching the tables and chairs arranged throughout the café. Now, the tables and chairs were missing, and the ceiling was charred black. The once cream walls of the octagonal space were now discoloured by smoke, with veins of soot spreading across their surface like roots.

Whoever had owned the Centre when the fire happened, hadn't bothered to clear out any of the debris. Instead it was strewn around the room in varying forms of decay. The bulletin board which used to house countless childrens' drawings of wildlife, had been obliterated, ash left in its place. The faux leather sofas on the far side of the room, arranged to make the most of the woodland view out of the vast windows, were blistered and blackened.

From the desolate destruction surrounding me, it was clear that no one had been here in a long time, nor would be coming to visit any time soon.

My heart hammered in my chest as realisation sunk in. I tried to wrench my wrists free, but the rope burned in response.

There had to be something here that could cut me free, or at least loosen the ties enough for me to escape.

And then what? A bitter voice sneered. The same one that berated me when I made a mistake. It had a point. The Centre was in the middle of nowhere. The nearest house was miles away and the closest town even further than that.

Whether it was the adrenaline or the piercing cold, I started to shiver. Of course the derelict building had no heating, and in the middle of winter I would be lucky if stayed above zero, especially once the sun dropped.

Through the expanse of windows to my right, I searched the forest for some clue on how long I'd been here, and how long I'd have before night fell. It had been four in the morning, nearly five, when R had drugged me.

The sun was low and dim, casting a soft light through the thick web of bare branches. I guessed it was close to 1pm. It would set in a few hours, so if I somehow managed to escape before that, I'd find myself walking on cold, dark roads, alone, without any way of lighting my way. I'd be lucky if I didn't get knocked down on the side of the road, let alone freeze to death before I made it to help. It's not like R had dressed me for winter weather. The tank top and jeans I'd worn to work the shift at the bar had been perfect when sweating my tits off was the thing to avoid. Now that hypothermia was more likely, I was cursing my choice in wardrobe.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I didn't dare say the words out loud. Somehow that seemed like an unnecessary loss of heat.

I took a steadying breath, trying to fight my body's natural impulse to shiver while I scanned the room for something sharp. There had to be something, anything. In every film, every book, there was always something.

Please.

No one ever spoke about this debilitating fear, the way it clouded my ability to think, to focus on anything other than the fact R had tied me up, left me here, and no one would have any idea where I was. No one was coming.

My vision blurred as tears threatened to fall.

Oh fuck no. I wouldn't let him find me crying. I'd spilled enough tears for him. No more.

Another deep breath in. My eyes zeroed in on the long glass cabinet across the room. It had once housed tray bakes and cakes, but the fire had left it shattered. Jagged shards, still set in the metal frame, glinted in the light and with them a glimmer of hope sparked to life.

Now to figure out how the fuck I get over there...