It hadn't been an unpleasant weekend. Sarah hadn't given it a chance to be. She was at the range by nine in the morning, and stayed there until the last of the other shooters packed up after dark. She went back home reeking of gunpowder and oil and sweat. Her arms ached, and she knew she was probably messing up her chances for the competition, but sanity, she decided, was more important than another trophy.

She was in control, she decided, and she was handling it. She was handling it her own way, on her own terms. It was perfectly normal to be a bit anxious about a past one couldn't remember. And the nightmares were enough to frighten anyone.

She was twelve years old again. She was on her hands and knees, cold flagstones under her fingers. She could feel warm blood flowing from a gaping wound in her leg. She pulled herself to her feet. She had to run. All her pursuers had to do was follow the trail of her blood. She stumbled on in the darkness. Her questing fingers found an iron door. Pale, shaking hands struggled with the locks and bolts. Behind the door something waited. She could feel it. It was merely existing; dead, but still dreaming. The twenty-four year old Sarah screamed inside the young Sarah's head, begging her not to undo those last few locks. The girl didn't hear her. Dizzy with lack of blood, the girl pushed on the door, falling into the darkness within.

Sarah woke with a scream and grabbed blindly for her Margolin semi-automatic. Drenched in sweat, she held the gun in trembling fingers, like a child would hold a favorite toy. Eventually she placed the gun back on the bedside table and buried her face in her hands. Why are they coming back now? she wondered despairingly. She knew of course. The answer lay in a letter still lying where it had fallen three days ago.

She had a scalding hot shower and scrubbed at her face, trying to erase the memories of her dreams. I'll sell it all, she told herself. I'll get rid of everything they've left me. I'll auction it, or even pay someone to junk it. Nothing can be worse than this.

Her courage fortified by these resolutions, she forced herself to eat a tasteless breakfast in front of her web browser and then picked up the phone. There's no sense procrastinating, she decided, the sooner I get this over and done with the sooner life can go back to normal.

She has to come here. The lawyers will want her to sign things in person. She'll need a couple days to pack, of course. She'll be here in a week, at the most. She'll come, she must.

The Sawyer and Moore law firm was tucked away discreetly between an ophthalmologist's surgery and a small café in a part of town that had been politely decaying for the best part of twenty years. In fact, Sarah felt the entire town was slowly crumbling back into the rolling countryside.

With the detachment of someone who had learnt it in a book, she knew she had grown up around Armstead. To her relief, although some of the buildings and thoroughfares seemed vaguely familiar, nothing in the dozing town woke the fear that slumbered uneasily in her mind.

The trip up had been relatively pleasant. Sarah wanted to spend as little time as possible in Armstead, but had sensibly packed enough for a couple weeks, or longer if the need arose. She had also taken the better part of her firearms collection. She felt a bit silly, giving in to her paranoia like that, but decided it was better to feel silly than frightened.

As she had traveled farther north, the countryside grew darker and lusher. Small farms and forests broke the monotony of the rolling hills, and she wound down the windows to better enjoy the clean country air. There's nothing to be afraid of, she told herself cheerfully, as she hummed along to her collection of sixties classics. It was just the trauma of losing my parents so young; she recited the therapist's words in her head like a mantra. Just an overactive imagination, he'd said, although Sarah was bright enough to know that her case had puzzled him.

Although she knew no one, she was waved to several times as she motored along the quiet streets of Armstead. She supposed that tourists were a rarity here, and she smiled and waved back. A young man on a bicycle loaded up with groceries directed her to the town's only law firm. She smiled and thanked him, and drove on.

"Welcome back, Ms Berkley," he called cheerfully after her. Sarah felt her face grow cold. They did know her after all. They recognised her after all these years, welcomed her back as if she'd only been away a week. Her first instinct was to put the car in gear and drive as far and as fast as she could away from this place. She took deep breaths, recited the therapist's words again and drove on.