When I step outside in the late afternoon, with the trap in my hands, a deathly silence stretches across the grass like witches’ fingers. It’s as if the woods know what I’m about to do.

Finding a firm spot between the roots of the sycamore tree, I drive the metal stake in deep and attach the chain to the stake. The last thing I do is cover the trap with leaves and put one of my dirty T-shirts near it as a lure.

Papa built the tree house when I was only little. Back then I could stand, even stretch my arms above my head, without touching the roof. Now I’m nearly twelve I have to stoop, which gives me cramps in the neck. I feel like Alice down the rabbit hole. If only tree houses grew with their owners.

Momma doesn’t mind me sleeping in the tree house. I’ve been doing it since I was small. So after school, when I told her I wanted to sleep out, she wasn’t too happy, but she agreed. Lately, we’ve been moving around each other like strangers.

I tell Mystic to stay in my room, then, with a stash of food and the rope ladder safely hauled up onto the landing, I settle in for the night. Pale grey shadows dance and dart, dappling the ground where I hid the trap. I’m scared, really scared, and there’s a sick fluttery feeling in my stomach, but I try to focus on what I have to do. Momma’s patchwork quilt helps, the one she made for me when I was a toddler. It’s like having her warm arms around me again, like she used to do when I was little.

I wish Grandpa Truegood was here. I wish the restless feeling in my legs would go away. It’s like the beast is inside me, pacing up and down, not letting me be still.

I’m so tired but I don’t dare close my eyes, not even for a second, in case I fall asleep.

A stick cracks. I must have drifted off. I sit up, staring into the dark, my eyes wide with fear.

The trap snaps with a metallic clang.

A horrible scream fills the night.

As I cover my ears with my hands, a startled bird flutters through the window, hits the back wall and falls to the floor, stunned. I want to help it, but terror has paralysed me.

The tree house shakes as the beast pulls and jerks at the tethering chain that’s wedged between the roots. I hope it is the beast and not some other wild animal I’ve trapped.

I have to be brave. I think of Grandpa Truegood. ‘Take your fear in your hands, Ziggy, and throw it away,’ he would say.

I concentrate hard, gathering up all the fluttery cold feelings that are running through me and toss them as far as I can. I wait until they slither away, then I poke my head out the window and look down. The screaming has softened to pitiful cries of pain. A musty odour wafts upwards. It’s as black as coal below me.

A flash of lightning floods the woods with a stark white light. I see a shape writhing on the ground. Then everything goes black again. Was it a fox? Surely not. It was far too big. But it looked like a cross between a wolf and a fox, with its silver fur and big bushy tail and yellow eyes.

The creature yanks and pulls at the chain and I feel the tree house rock again. Then I hear a snap and the jangle of the trap being dragged into the woods.

I wait until everything is quiet, then I climb down. There’s a lot of blood around the trunk of the tree and the smell sickens me.

I sit back on my haunches, trying to steady my thoughts. What am I going to do? I’ve trapped the beast, but now it’s run off. I can’t let it suffer. I have to go after it.

The beast has taken a trail that runs through a patch of open forest and up a slope to a stand of boulders called the Giant’s Marbles. At the top I look around for more blood and listen for the clinking of the trap or cries of pain. But the crickets are too loud. I keep walking. The woods rise and fall, and where the trees begin to thicken, the land tumbles down a stony slope to Fiddlers Stream.

I stop, hold my breath. I hear soft whimpering.

The air is filled with the copper smell of blood as the Hollow Tree looms in front of me. I hear the creature raging inside my special cave. I hear the clang of trap and chain, and feel my insides churning. Then it emerges, dragging the leg with the trap clamped around it.

It sways on its feet and slowly turns to face me. I wince as I feel the creature’s pain, and it’s like a fog has lifted from my head. My heart hurts.

What have I done?

It growls. I hold my breath and look around for a place to hide. Is it my time to die?

The beast is there. The water waits.

But it is not my birthday.