The telephone rang just then, shrill in the quiet house. Andrew startled, dust rising as he lifted the receiver. A clipped voice rasped something unintelligible. Then silence, and the line went dead. His skin prickled. It seemed he had ill-wishers even before he took charge of the old place!
The next morning, Andrew carried a spade across the dew-damp grass. The air smelled of wet leaves and moss, the garden heavy with silence. He stopped beneath the crooked oak marked on his sketch. To anyone else, it was just overgrown ground. To him, it was a promise of answers.