It was midday when Eleanor awoke. The sun was streaming through the open curtain, hitting her square in the face. She could feel it gently heating her skin, as though reminding her ever so quietly that we do not live in the cruel world of dreams.

Eleanor had been dreaming. Her father had come back, sailed through the door, and welcomed her with loving arms. But, as always, the dream had turned sour and someone had pushed her away from him. She'd turned to see the face of Will, dark and haughty.

She sat up now, blinking away the sleep, and then checked the time. It took her a few seconds to realise just how long she'd been asleep for, and that Will would probably have come back by now.

Eleanor bolted from the bed but as she dashed for the door, something caught under her foot and she stumbled. Using the doorframe to keep herself upright, Eleanor glanced back to see what had made her trip. Her gaze dropped downwards to a small ridge on the floor.

With a jolt, she realised it was a loose floorboard that had come up with her weight. She was surprised she hadn't noticed it before; but perhaps during her dramatic sobbing, she had not had the time to see such details.

Lowering herself carefully to the floor, she slipped her fingers under the wood and prised it up gently. It lifted easily, as though it had been pulled up before.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. An intense smell of decay. Something was rotting in there; Eleanor was sure of it. Maybe a mouse had died long ago? That didn't fit in with the loose floorboard discovery, though, thought Eleanor. Why would Will lift a floorboard to look at something like that? She knew his imagination was bigger than hers, but dead mice? Was that what literary critics spent their free time examining?

It was when she peered through the hole with the sunlight illuminating it brightly, that she discovered what was going on.

Rotting away underneath the floorboard was the body of Jonathan Coyle.