Raffi is at the opening before I can stop him. He points his flashlight inside the crevice. I close my eyes, praying that Kalila is all right. But a wail like a wounded animal rises above the sound of the rain and I see Raffi stumbling backwards. He sways on his feet. I rush to his side to steady him as he sobs.

I don’t want to go, but I have to see for myself.

Slowly, I approach the opening and turn on my flashlight. There is no body. But there’s so much blood. I can almost see what happened. The hunters and their dogs at one end, and the trapped silver fox at the other. The trampled dirt is mixed with blood. It was an unfair battle.

Raffi is on his knees now, keening. I stand beside him and all I can do is put my hand on his shoulder as the wind moans and whistles in and out of the Giant’s Marbles.

‘I must take Kalila’s body home,’ he says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. ‘If I do not, her spirit will never rest.’ He stands up, wipes his muddy hands on his pants. His face is fixed and determined. ‘Do you know where the hunters would take her?’

‘It’s a Dell Hollow custom to skin sheep killers and hang their pelts on the fence as a warning to others,’ I say. ‘Are you sure you want to see that, Raffi?’

‘Yes,’ he says with determination.

‘Then I know where she will be.’

I lead the way down the ridge to a trail that crosses Fiddlers Stream via a small wooden footbridge. On the other side is the Arnold farm.

In fine weather, Fiddlers Stream is quiet and gentle, only about twelve feet across. It is filled with brook trout and croaking frogs. Smooth rounded pebbles line the bed and the larger rocks usually appear above the water. Today the level is so high from the rains that even when we cross the bridge water rushes and swirls over our shoes. I hear a distant whispering and feel a sudden fear of the water.

Soon, Ziggy, soon, it whispers.

I hold Raffi’s hand until I reach the other side. Through the trees, Mystic is barking and I see the distant lights of the Arnold farm.

As we get closer, dark shapes of the outbuildings come into view – a barn, sheds, and then the farmhouse with its warm curtained windows. It’s late afternoon, but usually in the spring, night doesn’t fall until around eight o’clock. Today, though, the sky is heavy with cloud. Everything is dark and gloomy. I call Mystic to heel. I don’t want him being mistaken for another wild dog. Then I look at Raffi. He’s staring at the Arnold farm, his face blank.

We creep up to the paddock beside the red barn. I know this is where Harry’s father hangs the skins of the wild dogs he shoots. But the fence is empty.

‘That’s strange,’ I say. A surge of hope rises in me. I touch Raffi’s arm as we hear voices coming from inside the barn.

Together we creep up to the dusty window. Raffi uses his hand to wipe the glass and we peer through.

In the dim light of a kerosene lantern, I see Harry Arnold kneeling beside his own dog, Truss. Her pale grey fur is covered in blood and she whimpers quietly. There, beside them, is Mr Arnold holding a rifle. I don’t understand what happened to poor Truss. Did she get shot by mistake?

‘You know the truth, Harold,’ says Mr Arnold. ‘Truss will never be the same dog again.’

‘But she’s always been the perfect sheepdog, you’ve said so yourself – good and loyal and obedient. She would never kill those lambs . . .’ Harry’s voice breaks at the end of the sentence and he looks down at his dog.

‘Oh no,’ I gasp.

‘Be a man, Harold. It has to be done. The dog’s a killer.’ Mr Arnold hands the rifle to Harry and leaves the barn.

‘It was not Kalila,’ whispers Raffi. ‘I was mistaken. It was not my Kalila’s fur in the rock cave.’

I can hear the relief in his voice. I am happy for Raffi and happy that it wasn’t Kalila. But so sad for Truss. ‘Truss is such a gentle dog. She’s a trained sheepdog. She wouldn’t turn against her own flock for no reason, Raffi. I don’t understand.’

Raffi turns to face me. ‘It is the jinn,’ he says. ‘It gets inside a good dog – or a person – and makes her bad, makes her a killer.’

I feel that cold feathery hand between my shoulder blades at the sound of the word, jinn. It is oddly familiar. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘It is the bad I talk about. It is the evil in the woods,’ Raffi whispers.

I peer back in through the window. I feel sorry for Harry. His head is bent and Truss looks up at him with such trusting eyes. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I had to shoot Mystic. And it wasn’t even Truss’s fault. It was all because of that jinn . . . that horrible jinn.

‘How can we get rid of it?’ I say, wiping away angry tears.

Raffi shakes his head. ‘I must find Kalila first. I must protect her before the jinn can harm her more,’ he says.

The wind and rain swirl around the barn and it creaks and groans. I turn and run. I don’t want to hear the gunshot. I want to get as far away as I can. But I know I can’t run away from the jinn. This evil in the woods must be the cause of everything bad that has been happening to me and to Dell Hollow.

The wind is a hungry whirling dervish, battering the trees, ripping off leaves and branches, flinging them about. Has the jinn made this happen too? Everything that’s fragile or not rooted down spins and whirls through the air. A fork of lightning strikes a nearby tree and it crashes down, missing Mystic by a couple of inches.

‘We have to get out of the woods!’ I shout. ‘I think I know where Kalila is, but she’ll be safe there until the storm passes.’

Raffi nods reluctantly. He knows it’s too dangerous to go on.

We pick our way through the woods, keeping an eye out for falling branches. Instead of taking the footbridge back across Fiddlers Stream, I decide to head straight for the road. I can’t face the water. And this will be the safest way back to shelter.

We come out of the woods about a mile and a half from Green Lake.

‘Come back with me,’ says Raffi. ‘My grandfather would like to meet you and it is not safe to try and get home.’

I look to the right, the way back to town and home. Then I look to the left towards Green Lake. Momma will be worried, but I have to find out more about the jinn, about Kalila, and about myself. And I hope Raffi’s grandfather will have some of the answers.