The sheets were clean and the bed inviting, so wasting no more time I undressed, and the very moment my head touched the pillow I fell asleep.

When I next opened my eyes, the sun was streaming through the window. I’d been dreaming and had been woken suddenly by a noise. I thought it was probably the breakfast bell.

I felt worried then. Had it really been the bell downstairs summoning me to breakfast or a bell in my dream? How could I be sure? What was I supposed to do? It seemed that I’d be in trouble with the cook whether I went down early or late. So, deciding that I probably had heard the bell, I dressed and went downstairs right away.

On my way down I heard a clatter of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, but the moment I eased open the door, everything became deathly silent.

I made a mistake then. I should have gone straight back upstairs because it was obvious that the breakfast wasn’t ready. The plates had been cleared away from last night’s supper but the table was still bare and the fireplace was full of cold ashes. In fact the kitchen was chilly and, worse than that, it seemed to be growing colder by the second.

My mistake was in taking a step towards the table. No sooner had I done that than I heard something make a sound right behind me. It was an angry sound. There was no doubt about that. It was a definite hiss of anger and it was very close to my left ear. So close that I felt the breath of it.

The Spook had warned me not to come down early and I suddenly felt that I was in real danger.

As soon as I had entertained that thought something hit me very hard on the back of the head; I staggered towards the door, almost losing my balance and falling headlong.

I didn’t need a second warning. I ran from the room and up the stairs. Then, halfway up, I froze. There was someone standing at the top. Someone tall and menacing, silhouetted against the light from the door of my room.

I halted, unsure which way to go until I was reassured by a familiar voice. It was the Spook.

It was the first time I’d seen him without his long black cloak. He was wearing a black tunic and grey breeches and I could see that, although he was a tall man with broad shoulders, the rest of his body was thin, probably because some days all he got was a nibble of cheese. He was like the very best farm labourers when they get older. Some, of course, just get fatter, but the majority – like the ones my dad sometimes hires for the harvest now that most of my brothers have left home – are thin, with tough, wiry bodies. ‘Thinner means fitter,’ Dad always says and now, looking at the Spook, I could see why he was able to walk at such a furious pace and for so long without resting.

‘I warned you about going down early,’ he said quietly. ‘No doubt you got your ears boxed. Let that be a lesson to you, lad. Next time it might be far worse.’

‘I thought I heard the bell,’ I said. ‘But it must have been a bell in my dream.’

The Spook laughed softly. ‘That’s one of the first and most important lessons that an apprentice has to learn,’ he said; ‘the difference between waking and dreaming. Some never learn that.’

He shook his head, took a step towards me and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Come, I’ll show you round the garden. We’ve got to start somewhere and it’ll pass the time until breakfast’s ready’

When the Spook led me out, using the back door of the house, I saw that the garden was very large, much larger than it had looked from outside the hedge.

We walked east, squinting into the early morning sun, until we reached a wide lawn. The previous evening I’d thought that the garden was completely surrounded by the hedge, but now I realized that I was mistaken. There were gaps in it, and directly ahead was the wood. The path of white pebbles divided the lawn and vanished into the trees.

‘There’s really more than one garden,’ said the Spook. ‘Three, in fact, each reached by a path like this. We’ll look at the eastern garden first. It’s safe enough when the sun’s up, but never walk down this path after dark. Well, not unless you have very good reason and certainly never when you’re alone.’

Nervously I followed the Spook towards the trees. The grass was longer at the edge of the lawn and it was dotted with bluebells. I like bluebells because they flower in spring and always remind me that the long, hot days of summer are not too far away, but now I hardly gave them a second glance. The morning sun was hidden by the trees and the air had suddenly got much cooler. It reminded me of my visit to the kitchen.

There was something strange and dangerous about this part of the wood, and it seemed to be getting steadily colder the further we advanced into the trees.

There were rooks’ nests high above us, and the birds’ harsh, angry cries made me shiver even more than the cold. They were about as musical as my dad, who used to start singing as we got to the end of the milking. If the milk ever went sour my mam used to blame it on him.

The Spook halted and pointed to the ground about five paces ahead. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

The grass had been cleared and at the centre of the large patch of bare earth was a gravestone. It was vertical but leaning slightly to the left. On the ground before it, six feet of soil was edged with smaller stones, which was unusual. But there was something else even more strange: across the top of the patch of earth, and fastened to the outer stones by bolts, lay thirteen thick iron bars.

I counted them twice just to be sure.

‘Well, come on, lad -I asked you a question. What is it?’

My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak but I managed to stammer out three words: ‘It’s a grave…’

‘Good lad. Got it first time. Notice anything unusual?’ he asked.

I couldn’t speak at all by then. So I just nodded.

He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a dead witch and a pretty feeble one at that. They buried her on unhallowed ground outside a churchyard not too many miles from here. But she kept scratching her way to the surface. I gave her a good talking to but she wouldn’t listen, so I had her brought here. It makes people feel better. That way they can get on with their lives in peace. They don’t want to think about things like this. That’s our job.’

I nodded again and suddenly realized that I wasn’t breathing, so I sucked in a deep lungful of air. My heart was hammering away in my chest, threatening to break out any minute, and I was trembling from head to foot.

‘No, she’s little trouble now,’ the Spook continued. ‘Sometimes, at the full moon, you can hear her stirring, but she lacks the strength to get to the surface and the iron bars would stop her anyway. But there are worse things further off there in the trees,’ he said, gesturing east with his bony finger. ‘About another twenty paces would bring you to the spot.’

Worse? What could be worse? I wondered, but I knew he was going to tell me anyway.

‘There are two other witches. One’s dead and one’s alive. The dead one’s buried vertically, head down, but even then, once or twice each year we have to straighten out the bars over her grave. Just keep well away after dark.’

‘Why bury her head down?’ I asked.

‘That’s a good question, lad,’ the Spook said. ‘You see, the spirit of a dead witch is usually what we call "bone-bound". They’re trapped inside their bones and some don’t even know they’re dead. We try them first head up and that’s enough for most. All witches are different but some are really stubborn. Still bound to her bones, a witch like that tries hard to get back into the world. It’s as if they want to be born again, so we have to make things difficult for them and bury them the other way up. Coming out feet first isn’t easy. Human babies sometimes have the same trouble. But she’s still dangerous, so keep well away.