The fronts of houses rushed past her in the mist. None of their lights seemed to be on. Even if they were it didn’t prove the house was occupied; even if it was, they mightn’t answer the door. Not in time. She’d seen how fast the Spindly at Witchbrook had moved. She was fit enough, but wouldn’t outpace them for long. She veered to avoid a lamppost, tripped on a paving slab, cannoned into a gatepost. She stumbled on, hip throbbing, glanced back into the mist, trying to hear over the thump of blood in her ears. Footsteps echoed in the dark. She spun and ran, arms still out. At any moment another thin, tattered shape might loom out of the mist to grab her. Whooping for breath now, she shouted for help, but if anyone heard, there was no sign. Her shoulder bag thumped against her side. Was that why they were coming after her? Ditch it and she might be safe. And she might have, but then she saw the library’s windows glint in the streetlight, across the road. She ran to it, arms still outthrust.
