She sips the coffee, huddled over, almost tipping into the log fire. Not a word has passed her lips since she wrapped her fingers around the warmth of the mug. Her eyes stare into the depths of the logs, watching the dancing, flickering and crackling sparks as the wood succumbs. The horrors she is reliving are anyone’s guess.

Her shaking has barely subsided, despite the blanket I placed around her shoulders, and I can literally feel the cold emanating from her.

“You ok?” I ask. She nods, without taking her eyes from the flames.

The clock strikes three, the sudden chiming catching me unawares, my heart almost bursting from my chest. She’s been here for twenty minutes now, and I’m no wiser than I was after our first brief conversation.

I’d awoken to the sound of thumping at the lodge door, and I’m not too proud to say it terrified me. Here, in the seclusion of Gilmer’s Climb, high up Apelol Mountain, the last thing I expected was a visitor. That was the whole point in coming here. I’d rented the lodge for peace and quiet, and the chance to finish my manuscript without the constant interruptions of neighbours screaming and thumping the enjoyment of their sex life through my wall.

It wasn’t just the seclusion of the mountainside that made her appearance such a surprise, but the simple fact it’s the middle of winter, and there’s three feet of snow everywhere you look. How on earth this young woman got here is anyone’s guess. But she is here. Sitting in front of my fire; drinking my coffee, half-naked and freezing.

She’d pleaded with me to let her in. She was alone, she said, having left her husband somewhere on the mountain. They’d argued, apparently, and he’d hit her, threatened to kill her, so she ran. In the middle of the night. On a mountain covered in snow. I couldn’t leave her outside; the snow was falling once more, and the wind was throwing up the loose stuff into some serious drifts.

I watched as she sipped. She was about thirty at most; tall, slim, with shoulder-length brown hair, and the fire caught the shine of her wedding ring every time she raised the mug to her mouth.

“I’d get you something to wear,” I say, awkwardly, “but I’ve barely brought a change of clothes for myself.”

She slowly turns her head, looking toward the bedroom. “There’s some of my clothes in the drawers, back there.” My head snaps around to where she’s looking, and not for the first time I’m struggling for words.

“You have clothes here?”

“Of course, this is where we had our honeymoon.”

I let out an involuntary laugh. “You had your honeymoon here?” I repeat, like a simpleton. She nods. “Here?” I repeat. “In this lodge?”

She gets to her feet; the blanket falling behind her, and she reaches out to place the empty mug on the small table. “Yes,” she confirms. “We were on our honeymoon, when…” The words dry up and, suddenly, she looks confused… lost.

The absurdity of the situation hits me again. I’m here, in the most out-of-the-way place I could find, with a beautiful half-naked woman, who says she’s run away from her abusive husband. It’s three in the morning and nothing makes sense.

“Ok,” I say, mainly to myself, but she’s listening intently. “Let’s start from the beginning. My name’s Marco. Yours is?”

“Janelle.”

“Nice to meet you, Janelle. Can you tell me what happened to you? Now that you’ve warmed up a little. Can you do that?”

She places her hand on her forehead, trying to remember. “My husband…” she began. “We were here…on our honeymoon.” She looked around to the kitchen, then made a sudden, involuntary jerk, as if realising something. She sets off, unexpectedly, and I follow her into the kitchen. “He began beating me, there, against the worktop… then he grabbed…”

My eyes follow hers once more, to the knife block. I hadn’t noticed when I’d arrived, but one knife was missing. Her upset intensified, her tears flowing uncontrollably. “I ran,” she cried. “I ran.”

I grab the blanket once more, draping it around her shoulders, and lead her back to the seat by the fire. “You’re safe now,” I reassure her. “I’ll find you some clothes.” I leave her staring, sobbing, into the fire, and head into the bedroom.

A tallboy I’d never noticed when I’d arrived stands in the corner. I had paid no attention to the furnishings as they weren’t of much use to me; I tend to live out my suitcase, or, in this instance, my small rucksack. I pull each drawer out working from the top down, but all are empty. Except the bottom one.

Lining the base of the drawer is an old newspaper; it’s date jumping out from the aged yellow sheen, catching my eye. Monday February 11 1963. I carefully remove it, opening it out to reveal the front-page headlines.

“Newlywed Millionairess Pronounced Dead”.

I forget about my guest for a moment and sit cross-legged on the floor. My eyes dart along from line to line, taking in each word in amazement.

‘Oil Millionairess, Janelle Grear, formerly McMaster, 31, was today officially pronounced dead; despite the lack of a body. It is the second tragedy to hit the McMaster family in just a few months.

Mrs Grear, who was the principal beneficiary of the McMaster estate following the untimely death of her parents in an air crash just six months ago, went missing just four days into her honeymoon. Local police confirmed they were alerted to Mrs Grear’s disappearance by her distraught husband, Jamie, but, despite extensive searches, no trace of her remains were found. Given the atrocious weather in the area recently, it is likely that the heiress’ body will remain covered by snow for many more months.

It is thought Mrs Grear suffered a mental breakdown brought on by the grief of losing her parents, and the stress of inheriting such a vast fortune and estate.

The couple were married after a whirlwind romance, having met just two months ago. Mr Grear is helping the police with their enquiries, but it is stressed that there are no suspicious circumstances surrounding the disappearance.’

My head snaps back to the living room, and I jump to my feet. This made little sense; a newspaper from sixty years ago; a strange woman showing up in the middle of the night.

I enter the living room, but it’s empty. She’s gone. I tug the cabin door open, but am met immediately by a three-foot wall of snow barring my way, forcing me to slam the door shut again. Nothing is coming in or out of there.

Am I going crazy? Cabin fever? I’ve only been here a few days, surely not…

In front of the fire, the blanket, lying discarded on the floor, and a used coffee mug on the table.