tacey looks like she really wants to helicopter herself out of there, but there’s nowhere much to go, except past your mum. Behind you is the big old fence, three metres of rotting wood and rusty galvanised iron and viciously sharp nails. ‘Come on,’ you say, ‘I’ll introduce you.’

You walk towards your mother. ‘Oh, there you are dear,’ she says. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘Mum, this is Stacey,’ you say, turning to introduce your new friend. But to your amazement there’s no-one there! Just the fence and the long weeds and the three lonely white crosses.

Your mother’s ignoring you, as she walks towards the crosses. ‘What did you say, dear?’ she asks vaguely. ‘Look at these graves. So sad isn’t it. Those poor people.’

‘You . . . you mean you know about them?’ you ask. You’re finding it hard to concentrate on this conversation: you’re looking around desperately, trying to find Stacey.

‘Oh, didn’t we tell you? The last owners of this house were killed in a car accident, just down there at the corner, a few years ago. No-one’s lived here since. I think it put people off the house. Actually they had a daughter about your age . . . She died in the accident too. I think her name was . . . Tracey? No, that’s not it . . . it started with S . . .’

‘Stop, stop!’ you yell, with your hands over your ears. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

But at least you know now how Stacey disappeared so fast.