Neil Laker was dreaming. He had to be. If it wasn't a dream then he really was too far gone now to stand a chance of fighting back. Sarah was still in danger. Laying in his bed, the sheets tucked so tightly that even wiggling his toes was an effort, his mind drifted away to where it felt it needed to be. Anywhere from here and now.

1989 had started off as a promising year. Sarah had found a group of friends at college and no longer spent so much time at home. He'd seen the way the blonde boy from the Tyler's farm looked at her, but even at eighteen, she still showed no intention of romantic involvement. Being free of the house had done her good. She smiled a lot more then.

It had taken only a single moment of distraction on his behalf to hash things up. He'd completely lost his temper when his father had talked about Sarah and her friend Clara playing 'Bloody Mary' in the bathroom mirror. Of all the reckless things the teens could have done in that house. And in that mirror! The girls had no idea what they'd been messing with.

His father had found them badly shaken up, and instead of giving them a good old clip round the ear, he'd taken the girls downstairs for cocoa and cozy stories.

Well, that was the old man down to a tee - always one to simplify and smooth things over. He could only remember his father being angry with him a handful of times. The time he'd found the witch bottle in the fireplace was the clearest. Probably buried there by his great grandfather, the bottles were supposed to entice then trap the evil sprites and spirits sent out by witches curses. The pee and herbs to tempt it, the bottle to trap and the nails to kill. They were used a lot in the days before science came to light. When Neil found one, his father had totally lost it and smashed the antique against the hearth. The foul contents splashing out onto the stones, rough-hewn nails rolling in every direction. That night he boarded the fireplace over for good.

Neil had listened from the kitchen while his father talked with the girls in the living room. That's how he'd discovered what they'd been up to in the bathroom. It had been easy to picture the aging man, sat in his armchair, subduing the two teenagers curled up together on the sofa. His naturally deep, loud voice carried through the house. The sweet aroma of cocoa lingered in the air. It embraced Neil, as he sat there on the cold floor, his back against the kitchen cupboards.

He could still smell the cocoa.

Clara had covered her nerves by giggling. Sarah had sounded wary and tense. His father soothed their fears with stories of the family.

"Well, that was your great grandfather you see. He was crazier than a ferret in heat. Never ate before midnight, just in case the 'sprites' had put a spell on his food."

"How does that make any sense?"

"It's the midnight moonlight that kills the evil. That's what he used to tell me. Of course, your great grandmother was made of stronger stuff and she'd bashed him with a frying pan for being such an old fool."

Clara's giggle had echoed round the dining room, bouncing its way to his ears, while sweet Sarah had remarked, in her shaky voice.

"Great grandpa George must have had a reason to think so."

There had been a pause, leaving Neil to wonder if he could sense the battle that must have been going on in his father's mind. Would he allow himself to tell the girls the truth about the curse or would he just cover it over with some lame old wife's tale of sprites and witchcraft? What his father said next confirmed his deduction.

"Old George was obsessed with stories from his own grandmother. She used to make him swear to protect his children. She would make up these ceramic jars of pee with metal pins and pine tree needles - called witch bottles - then put them into the ground outside, by each corner of the house."

Clara had giggled again. But Sarah had been sincere.

"Why?"

"Let's just say that she had problems. She'd fought all her life to clear herself of rumours of witchcraft, which is daft considering she came directly down the line from the old Witchfinder General round here - and she'd lost three babies before my mother was born, and another one after. So obviously she couldn't have been a witch or she'd have been able to save them all, I suppose."

Clara had finally spoken up, her voice prickling with sympathy. She'd blossomed into such a caring, sensitive young woman.
"Oh, that's so sad. I don't blame her then."

"Well, poor old George was the one who'd had to suffer, I'm guessing. That's why he'd continued to make up the potions. I found all of them and dug them up years ago. Not having any of that nonsense hanging around, thank you very much! The more credence you give these things, the worse they become. And believe me, they can get much worse. Which brings me right back to the two of you."

There had been another pause, heavy with the girl's anticipation.

"Doing that spell in the mirror is not going to give you any satisfaction, Sarah. Your mother wouldn't thank you for it. And neither do I. It's a foolish thing to do."

Another pause.

"Did you both say it three times? Did you both turn to see after?"

At this point, Neil had guessed what it was they'd been up to. How could they have been so stupid? His breathing had quickened and his fists had curled involuntarily, an anger boiling deep inside. They could have awakened it! Those silly girls had probably just undone all the effort it had taken him to keep the house quiet.

Neil had retreated to his room. Seething in his sheets, writhing and fuming to himself over the episode. He'd heard the girls coming up to bed. He'd listened to his father settling them down and saying goodnight.

The next thing he'd heard was Sarah's scream at six in the morning.

Clara was dead. There was no denying it, there was no evidence to show anything different. It was just a fact.

Her poor, young and pallid face looked so peaceful against the soft pink candy stripes of Sarah's pillows. They'd been sharing her bed, as was the norm back then, and Clara, simply hadn't woken up. As simple as that.

He remembered Sarah screaming and crying, begging her friend to wake up, pleading with him to do something - anything to make it happen. There was nothing that he could have done.

Neil had stood on the landing, opposite the stairs, watching silently while his father swept up his granddaughter in his arms and held her through the torrents of tears. Eventually coaxing her down the stairs to pick up the phone and call the ambulance.

It was too late for that. Much too late. All that had been threatening to come back was now well and truly on the way. Neil was convinced. His dormant anger from the girls' actions the night before was rising to grip at his throat. Pricking and prying its mean, evil way back into his life.

That fucking mirror! It had to be what was setting this off again. Even his father never looked in it anymore. He'd seen him shaving in the early morning, preferring to turn the round object upwards and use his reflection in the window instead. It had to be the mirror.

He didn't recall just how long he'd stood there, at the top of the landing, his rage building, but he knew that time had passed quicker than his actions.

The siren of the ambulance was howling along the lane, becoming louder with every second, hurting his brain. He'd tried to clutch at his hair, tear away the wicked screams of pain, but it wouldn't stop. Neil shifted into movement, forcing his body to withstand the force of the storm that raged within him. He slammed the bathroom door open and flung himself at the mirror on the window sill. A flood of hot blood thumped up through his temples as he reached out to take hold of the mirror. He was roaring like an injured bear - yelling obscenities, crushing the glass between his fingers. The shattered mirror piercing his fingertips, drawing blood.

That's when they'd grabbed him. The ambulance men had torn him away from his duty. As they heaved him from the room, he saw the shards of glass snap themselves back into place, repairing the smooth surface of the mirror. He struck out violently, at the incredible sight, at the men. They'd had no idea of how important it was for him to destroy that link. He could forgive them now, looking back, but at the time he'd been a whirlwind of hate and fear, desperate to break the whole world apart to save his daughter.

Here and now it was dark. The room was silent. Not a peaceful quiet, but that stale, baited air, with tension and depth. Tears leaked from his eyes, his left hand began to tremble. Someone was here. Someone was sitting on the end of the bed. He felt the mattress ease down with the weight and it let out a squeak of old, tired springs. Did he dare look? Didn't he already know who it was he'd be faced with? That pallid, peaceful face, free from the colour of blood, free from the colour of life.

Neil Laker dared to look. His blurry eyes, flicking eyelids in rapid motion to clear his vision, his pulse throbbing through his veins.

There she was. Little Clara Trench. Sitting upright on the end of his bed, twitching her bare white feet up and down from under her long nightshirt; the one with the stripes and design of Alcatraz prison inmate on it. Her long, dark brown hair curled over one shoulder, exactly as his wife Maria used to do at night.

Thankfully, Clara's expression was lost in the darkness. He had no desire to see it. She would stay there the night, as she often did. Her presence didn't scare him. In fact he found a strange comfort in her visits. They were frequent and gave him the strength to know that along with himself, Clara was not giving up on the world of the living.

Her heart may have done so, that night in 1989, but her spirit was still here. Still keeping an eye on him and the constant challenge he faced to maintain Sarah's future. Fatigue finally won over his senses, his eyelids blinking and falling until eventually Clara's image faded out of view and he moved off into the open arms of sleep.