The house slept uneasily. Floors creaked. Doors groaned. Icy pockets swirled about every room.

Bronwyn woke. Shadows changed shape upon rose bud walls. The mattress seemed to sink beneath her body, as if threatening to engulf her. This Georgian house appeared to have woken up as if stirred by its own recent memory.

Outside, a lake moved sluggish black water onto a pebbled shore. She could hear the reeds whispering while past dying moans seemed to seep through her veins. Bronwyn sat bolt upright. Caught her breath. Held it. The moans became wails as high winds battered at roof tiles.

Getting up, she went to the window. Through the glass, darkly, she could see the outline of the place where he’d been laid to rest. His final wish had been adhered to; a natural burial beneath an old oak tree planted by his great great grandfather.

James Cromby, a childless widower, met Bronwyn at a five star hotel in Hastings. James, inviting her to join him for dinner, had been attracted by her tranquil, mature beauty and concern for his welfare.

Weeks later, he’d asked Bronwyn if she’d consider being his life long companion.‘I’m old fashioned, James,’ she’d replied, blushing daintily. ‘I could only live with you as your wife.’

Five years later, James Cromby lay beneath the earth at the age of eighty three. His doctor, running a busy practise and about to go off on holiday, had signed heart failure on the Death Certificate, without any qualms or inklings of suspicion.

Apart from the undertaker, only Bronwyn had stood at the open graveside, having deliberately alienated James’s friends and distant relatives, within months of their marriage.

Since that day in mid-September, a black loneliness had crept upon her with insidious stealth. ‘I kept my promise,’ she now said. ‘You lie at rest in the place you’d indicated.’

A violent gust shook the bare limbs of the oak as if in answer to her shallow reiteration of that promise made on their honeymoon in Northern France half a decade ago.

Then she saw a flame burning brightly on the lake’s shore. It moved, as if held by an invisible hand, and leaning forward, she watched the flame draw closer towards the house.

Downstairs, a dying log fire whipped up by a violent draught, spewed out burning embers across the room. Some fell onto deep pile carpet. Others, sprinkled like gold sequins, landed on soft furnishings and thick brocade curtains.

The front door slammed open, and a blast of wind surged through the ground floor, sucking at those tiny flames. Unsated, a wall of fire rose up into a blazing fountain to crash down onto the winding staircase.

At the sound, Bronwyn spun around. In horror, she saw her late husband standing in the bedroom doorway. In his right hand, he held a flickering candle.

'No.’ Bronwyn retreated as the figure moved towards her. ‘Please James,’ she pleaded but received no reply.

The backs of her knees hit the window sill and, with flailing arms, Bronwyn tumbled through glass, falling to the earth breaking her spine and all four of her limbs.

Minutes later, the house erupted into an inferno. Frantic and in agony, Bronwyn tried to wriggle away from the terrible heat and falling debris.

‘It won’t be long, my dear. You'll soon be with me.' Smiling, James knelt down beside her, still holding that flame that burned brightly in the palm of his hand.