The lads in the village had talked about a thing with too many teeth to fit in its mouth. Could that be Tusk, Mother Malkin’s son? A son who’d probably killed those women by crushing the life out of them?

That set my hands trembling so much that I could hardly hold the book steady enough to read it. It seemed that some witches used ‘bone magic’. They were necromancers who got their power by summoning the dead. But Mother Malkin was even worse. Mother Malkin used ‘blood magic’. She got her power by using human blood and was particularly fond of the blood of children.

I thought of the black, sticky cakes and shuddered. A child had gone missing from the Long Ridge. A child too young to walk. Had it been snatched by Bony Lizzie? Had its blood been used to make those cakes? And what about the second child, the one the villagers were searching for? What if Bony Lizzie had snatched that one too, ready for when Mother Malkin escaped from her pit so that she could use its blood to work her magic? The child might be in Lizzie’s house now!

I forced myself to go on reading.

Thirteen years ago, early in the winter, Mother Malkin had come to live in Chipenden, bringing her granddaughter, Bony Lizzie, with her. When he’d come back from his winter house in Anglezarke, the Spook had wasted no time in dealing with her. After driving Bony Lizzie off, he’d bound Mother Malkin with a silver chain and carried her back to the pit in his garden.

The Spook seemed to be arguing with himself in the account. He clearly didn’t like burying her alive but explained why it had to be done. He believed that it was too dangerous to kill her: once slain, she had the power to return and would be even stronger and more dangerous than before.

The point was, could she still escape? One cake and she’d been able to bend the bars. Although she wouldn’t get the third, two might just be enough. At midnight she might still climb out of the pit. What could I do?

If you could bind a witch with a silver chain, then it might have been worth trying to fasten one across the top of the bent bars to stop her climbing out of her pit. The trouble was, the Spook’s silver chain was in his bag, which always travelled with him.

I saw something else as I left that library. It was beside the door, so I hadn’t noticed it as I came in. It was a long list of names on yellow paper, exactly thirty and all written in the Spook’s own handwriting. My own name, Thomas J. Ward, was at the very bottom, and directly above it was the name William Bradley, which had been crossed out with a horizontal line; next to it were the letters RIP.

I felt cold all over then because I knew that they meant Rest in Peace and that Billy Bradley had died. More than two thirds of the names on the paper had been crossed off; of those, another nine were dead.

I supposed that a lot were crossed out simply because they’d failed to make the grade as apprentices, perhaps not even making it to the end of the first month. Those who had died were more worrying. I wondered what had happened to Billy Bradley and I remembered what Alice had said: ‘You don’t want to end up like Old Gregory’s last apprentice.’

How did Alice know what had happened to Billy? It was probably just that everybody in the locality knew about it, whereas I was an outsider. Or had her family had something to do with it? I hoped not, but it gave me something else to worry about.

Wasting no more time, I went down to the village. The butcher seemed to have some contact with the Spook. How else had he got the sack to put the meat into? So I decided to tell him about my suspicions and try to persuade him to search Lizzie’s house for the missing child.

It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at his shop and it was closed. I knocked on the doors of five cottages before anyone came to answer. They confirmed what I already suspected: the butcher had gone off with the other men to search the fells. They wouldn’t be back until noon the following day. It seemed that after searching the local fells, they were going to cross the valley to the village at the foot of the Long Ridge, where the first child had gone missing. There they’d carry out a wider search and stay overnight.

I had to face it. I was on my own.

Soon, both sad and afraid, I was climbing the lane back towards the Spook’s house. I knew that if Mother Malkin got out of her grave, then the child would be dead before morning.

I knew also that I was the only one who might even try to do something about it.

Back at the cottage, I went to the room where the Spook kept his walking clothes. I chose one of his old cloaks. It was too big, of course, and the hem came down almost to my ankles while the hood kept falling down over my eyes. Still, it would keep out the worst of the cold. I borrowed one of his staffs too, the one most useful to me as a walking stick: it was shorter than the others and slightly thicker at one end.

When I finally left the cottage, it was close to midnight. The sky was bright and there was a full moon just rising above the trees, but I could smell rain and the wind was freshening from the west.

I walked out into the garden and headed directly for Mother Malkin’s pit. I was afraid, but someone had to do it and who else was there but me? It was all my fault anyway. If only I’d told the Spook about meeting Alice and what she’d told the lads about Lizzie being back! He could have sorted it all out then. He wouldn’t have been lured away to Pendle.

The more I thought about it, the worse it got. The child on the Long Ridge might not have died. I felt guilty, so guilty, and I couldn’t stand the thought that another child might die and that would be my fault too.

I passed the second grave where the dead witch was buried head down, and moved very slowly forward on my tiptoes until I reached the pit.

A shaft of moonlight fell through the trees to light it up, so there was no doubt about what had happened.

I was too late.

The bars had been bent even further apart, almost into the shape of a circle. Even the butcher could have eased his massive shoulders through that gap.

I peered down into the blackness of the pit but couldn’t see anything. I suppose I had a forlorn hope that she might have exhausted herself bending the bars and was now too tired to climb out.

Fat chance. At that moment a cloud drifted across the moon, making things a lot darker, but I could see the bent ferns. I could see the direction she’d taken. There was enough light to follow her trail.

So I followed her into the gloom. I wasn’t moving too quickly and I was being very, very cautious. What if she was hiding and waiting for me just ahead? I also knew that she probably hadn’t got very far. For one thing, it wasn’t more than five minutes or so after midnight. Whatever was in the cakes she’d eaten, I knew that dark magic would have played some part in getting her strength back. It was a magic that was supposed to be more powerful during the hours of darkness – particularly at midnight. She’d only eaten two cakes, not three, so that was in my favour, but I thought of the terrible strength needed to bend those bars.

Once out of the trees, I found it easy to follow her trail through the grass. She was heading downhill but in a direction that would take her away from Bony Lizzie’s cottage. That puzzled me at first, until I remembered the river in the gully below. A malevolent witch couldn’t cross running water – the Spook had taught me that – so she would have to move along its banks until it curved back upon itself, leaving her way clear.

Once in sight of the river, I paused on the hillside and searched the land below. The moon came out from behind the cloud, but at first, even with its help, I couldn’t see anything much down by the river because there were trees on both banks, casting dark shadows.