The dining room was at the back of the house. A long oak table surrounded by chairs sat in the centre, playing piggy-in-the-middle with a long serving hatch beside a swinging door into the kitchen, and a large dresser. The dresser stood alone, intricately carved and decorated with a series of collectors plates. “So … can you talk us through what’s been going on?” asked Scott as he sat down. Preston followed suit, pulling a notebook from his satchel and producing a fountain pen from his protected shirt pocket.

“Besides the wind and the pranks, I’ve forgotten,” said Kevin. He stood by the sliding glass doors that led out onto the spacious backyard. He peered out at his award-winning garden, concealed by the darkness.

“Kevin, please.” Mirah pulled a chair from under the table. “They’re here to help.” Kevin rolled his eyes. He pulled himself from the window reluctantly and sat down at the table. Mirah rested a hand on his shoulder as she explained. “It started with the occasional noise not long after we moved in. Creaks and bangs. We thought it was just normal … until it started getting worse.”

Scott itched his beard: time for a trim. “How?”

Mirah lowered into the chair beside her husband. “At first we’d see movement. We discovered that the creaking was the doors moving. Just a little at first, but gradually over about six months, they moved more and more. Then they started to slam. Then the furniture started moving.”

“Move? Like a few inches?”

“Move, like a few yards,” corrected Kevin, leaning forward over the table. “Damn near across the room.”

Preston raised an eyebrow, pausing from his note-taking to glance at Scott, who returned the look. “Mr Sandford, is there any way at all that someone could have moved your furniture without your knowledge?”

Kevin sat back, a bemused smile creeping across his face. “I knew it. All that crap about drafts and whatever. You think we’re lying.”

“I don’t think you’re lying, Mr Sandford. I think something is obviously going on here, which you’ve interpreted as paranormal. I’ve got a lot of experience investigating cases like this, and each and every time, we’ve always found a reasonable explanation. Not ghosts …”

“Not witches,” chimed in Preston. Scott closed his eyes.

“Nothing that can’t be explained. I can sympathise with your situation—”

“No, I don’t think you can, son. We’ve put up with this too long for some punk like you to tell us we’re making it up.” Kevin glared at Scott, his face trembling. “No one comes into our house and moves our goddamned furniture.”

Scott observed Kevin, contemplating. He looked at Mirah, who appeared worried by the exchange. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Have a pleasant evening.” He smiled at the couple and rose from his chair.