In her creepy, gothic tale, author Elisabeth Wolf sends grieving librarian Anne Adams to a remote country house in the West of Scotland. Instead of the peace she was craving, she finds the job much more than she bargained for. This extract is her first inkling that the library is not what it seems.

Winterbourne 
By Elisabeth Wolf
Published by Black & White Publishing

After lunch I became lost in the work. It was engaging and engrossing, and I certainly worked longer than my four hours that first day. Dusk fell and I hardly noticed, until I felt something brush softly against my cheek. I looked up from the screen and a shadowy form passed in front of my eyes. I raised a hand and a gasp of shock escaped me.

A moth. A huge moth was fluttering around my head. My heart practically smashed its way out through my ribs. Since childhood I’d been terrified of moths. I stood up, kicking my chair over behind me, arms flailing, as adrenalin flooded like ice through my veins.

As the moth settled on the keyboard of the laptop, I took three or four steps back, panting. My back came up against the closest bookcase and I grabbed hold of the middle shelf on either side of me, clenching my knuckles.

‘Calm down, Anne.’ I spoke out loud. ‘Just a moth. Can’t hurt you.’

I stood staring at the creature as I waited for my heart rate to drop back to normal. It was just a bloody moth, after all. On the moth scale of things, it was a giant. Its fat, hairy body must have been three inches long, and as it rested, wings open, I guessed it had a wingspan of about five inches. From a distance it was mottled black and gold, but as my interest overcame my fear I crept forward, so I could see it in more detail. The body was mostly black, with partial gold stripes, a little like a wasp. The forewings were black with small flashes of gold, like watermarks, while the hindwings were gold with two black bands on each. At the front of its head, two antennae quivered like thick gold wires.

I took another step closer. The was no mistaking the image on its thorax. A human skull marked out in golden tufts of hair. It was a death’s-head hawkmoth, something I’d never seen for real before now, but which had haunted my childhood imaginings and flooded my heart with fear.

As I stared, slack-jawed, breathing hard, the creature manoeuvred itself around on the keyboard and let out an angry scritch.

I ran to the library door and out onto the landing, slamming it shut behind me.

Leaning against the wall, I gave myself a good talking-to. It was just a moth. Yes, a big one, that could apparently make a noise. But it wasn’t malevolent and it didn’t want to harm me. Moths don’t bite, I told myself. I tried to convince myself. But I was sure I’d heard somewhere that an angry hawkmoth could nip, and this one was huge.

The house was silent around me, but somehow it seemed to be breathing with me too. I felt dizzy, so I squatted down and put my head between my knees. Somewhere, in the distance, floorboards creaked. Another noise made me jump, but I realised it was just the cormorant outside. A cormorant. Not necessarily the one I’d seen on the jetty. They all looked and sounded the same, didn’t they?

When I felt calmer, I went up to my bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. How stupid was I to get scared half to death by a moth? I pressed the towel against my eyes, straightened my hair in the mirror and took a deep breath. Hopefully it would have gone by the time I got back to the library, but if it hadn’t I’d simply open one of the windows and shoo it out with a rolled-up newspaper.

The house was still quiet as I made my way down the stairs, the atmosphere heavy. I felt nervous, but I was determined to overcome my fear. I put my hand on the library door handle,

pushed it down and swung open the door.

This time I screamed, using up all the air in my lungs. There wasn’t just one hawkmoth. There was a multitude. A black cloud of moths, dancing in the air, filling the room with the soft whisper of beating wings. They were settled on every flat surface and crawling on the spines of the books. They perched on the flowers in the vase and flitted round the light fittings which hung from ceiling. As the draught from the moving door alerted them to my presence, some of them started to make the same scritch noise that the first moth had made when it landed on my keyboard. Now there was a cluster of moths on the keyboard and more crawling up the screen. I slammed the door shut and screamed again. Then I ran as best I could without the aid of my stick towards the stairs. Clutching at the banister, I took the stairs two at a time. Mrs Cooper was opening the kitchen door just as I arrived on the other side of it, and I barrelled into her, making us both stagger back against the big table.

Mrs Cooper grunted with the impact.

Robert Cooper, who was sitting at the table studying a newspaper, looked up. ‘What’s the matter, girl?’

I fought for breath, stepping back from Mrs Cooper, who looked me up and down as she straightened her apron. ‘Moths,’ I gasped. ‘The library’s full of hawkmoths. Hundreds . . .’

The Coopers stared at each other for a second, two seconds. ‘It’s a sign—’ said Cooper.

Mrs Cooper cut him off . ‘Robert Cooper, go up there and flush them out, please.’

Cooper gave a mock salute, the bitter sarcasm of which was unmissable, but he pushed back his chair and ambled out of the kitchen.

I looked at Mrs Cooper. ‘What did he mean, it’s a sign?’ Mrs Cooper turned away from me. She had something bubbling in a pot on the range. ‘The stuff and nonsense that comes out of that man’s mouth.’

‘But . . .’

‘Go and help him, Anne. It’ll only take a couple of minutes to get them out. Can’t let them stay and nest.’

I caught up with Cooper at the top of the grand staircase and grabbed the top of his arm from behind.

‘What did you mean?’ I said as he turned to look at me.

‘What sign?’

He pulled away and carried on walking towards the library. I hung back. I didn’t want to see the hawkmoths again. I’d hardly stopped shaking from the first encounter. He opened the door and stepped inside.

‘Nothing here,’ he said with a raised voice.

I went to the open door. Cooper was standing in the middle of the library and he was right. There wasn’t a single hawkmoth to be seen. I grabbed for the door handle, unsteady on my feet.

‘What the . . . ?’

Winterbourne by Elisabeth Wolf is published by Black & White Publishing, priced £16.99.