She laced up her boots, put the stone back in her pocket, and walked into the dark.
“You left the latch off the bottom hinge.”
Three days later, the knock came.
“Kids don’t go up there,” Danny said. “They’re all on their phones. You’re the only one still haunting that hill.”
The moor had been waiting.
She laughed. But that night, she didn’t sleep.
Not on her door. Inside her.
Nicola Ridd didn’t believe in ghosts. But she believed in her grandmother. And she believed that a closed gate, a warm stone, and a voice from the grave added up to exactly one thing: