Nicola Ridd ((top)) Now

Not on her door. Inside her.

The road. The new access track for the quarry. Approved last month. Set to cut straight through the eastern flank of the moor—through the old stone circle that archaeologists had just started to survey. nicola ridd

It wasn’t just loose. The latch wasn’t missing. It had been unscrewed . Deliberately. And tucked behind the hinge plate, folded into a tight square, was a piece of oilcloth. Not on her door

She was washing the mud off her boots when she heard a voice. Not a whisper. Not a memory. A real, clear voice, like someone standing just behind her left shoulder. The new access track for the quarry

It started with the gate. The old iron gate at the foot of Black Combe, the one that led to the abandoned shepherd’s hut. Every morning on her run, Nicola would find it swinging open. Every evening, she’d latch it shut. And every dawn, it would be open again, groaning on its hinges like a tired old dog.

The moor had been waiting.

“You left the latch off the bottom hinge.”