Nicola Ridd had never believed in ghosts. She believed in rock pools, the grit of sand in her trainers, and the cold shock of diving into the North Sea on New Year’s Day. She believed in the weight of wet wool and the burn of a good, strong tea.
Not on her door. Inside her.
Nicola drove to the moor that same hour, flashlight trembling in her hand. She walked to the shepherd’s hut. The gate was open, as always. But this time, she looked at the bottom hinge. nicola ridd
But the moor believed in her.