Had it been a continuous noise, that would not have been a problem. Lucy could have gone to sleep with a constant rumble, or a low hum, or even a regular trickle of water. But it wasn’t any of those things. Or rather, it was all of them, but mixed up and unpredictable, as though the radiator was trying to say something.

Even the way the radiator looked was frightening. It was a huge old thing crouching at the side of the room; not the unassuming rectangular kind they’d had in the old house, but a giant, iron skeleton, all ridges and angles. It was painted in a sickly creamy grey, the colour of hospitals, and the paint was flaking, like dead skin, exposing dark patches like raw meat underneath. 

The only thing that was perhaps even more frightening than the radiator was the prospect of going downstairs again to tell Mummy and Richard about the noise it was making. Because Richard was definitely beginning to lose his temper with her.

But at some point soon, Lucy was going to need to confront at least one of them.

A ghost story of sorts, in which (as in all of the best ghost stories) the people who are still alive are probably scarier than the dead ones. As are the inanimate objects that were never supposed to be alive in the first place.