The red brick stables and cobblestone yard were abandoned and still. Nothing stirred, but a few bits of straw, blown about by the wind off the moors. All of the sudden, from behind the adjoining garage, came the raucous groaning of ancient alien engines. The noise startled a raven, which had chosen to rest upon the weather cockerel atop the stables roof. With throaty caws of protest, it unfolded it's ebony wings and flew over the TARDIS to find some other perch.

Coming from the rear of the garage, Doctor cautiously made his way to the stable yard. There was something about this place. He could feel it the moment he stepped out of the TARDIS doors. In the first few seconds, he'd tried to dismiss it, considering that his imagination was being influenced by Donna's phone call. After all, there was nothing there. What did he have to be afraid of?

But, the Doctor knew better. The feeling was with him, even now. A cold, creeping, icy finger, slowly walking up his spine to squeeze its way into his brain. It was fear. In its rawest, most primeval form. It felt oppressive, threatening, like the gathering green-black clouds, the electrically charged air, before the onslaught of a violent thunderstorm. It made him want to run away. So, the Doctor went forward, out into the open.

The first thing the Doctor noticed, was that internally, his body was over-reacting to some sort of invisible stimuli. For instance, his hearts were beating faster than normal. Putting on his eyeglasses, he whipped out the sonic screwdriver. After sonicking his own body up and down, the Doctor muttered to himself that his adrenaline levels seemed to be unusually elevated. The second thing the Doctor noticed, was a thin, dark rivulet of blood, running between the cracks in the cobblestones at his feet. That would be from the body then, he reckoned.

There, in front of one of the stall doors, was stood the body of a man. The corpse was standing upright, wedged flat against the dutch doors of a horse stall. What had killed the man was readily apparent. By all appearances, the top half of the heavy wooden door had been open, and the man had leaned against the bottom half of the door to look inside. Somehow, the upper door had swung shut on him, before he could move out of the way. It had almost completely severed the man's head, crushing his neck flat as Frisian pancake.

The Doctor could only guess at the strength which was needed to inflict such mortal injury. More powerful than the average human was capable of, quite probably. And then there was that feeling of fear, still hovering over him like a miasmal evil. Someone or something was trying to mess with his head. With concentrated effort, the Doctor was point-blank refusing to take the bait.

Opening the stall door, he let the body fall to the floor like a discarded doll, and sadly looked down, wondering if this was Michael, never liking to see anyone die before his or her time. And with a Time Lord's insight, the Doctor instinctively knew that it wasn't this man's time. He noticed a horse rug hanging on the stable wall, and draped it over the body. It's what Donna would have done. Straightening up, he stepped back, and looked around the place. Where was Donna?

Hiding the darkness of the cellar, Donna could hear nothing but her own breathing. Violentia had fainted at the sight of her husband, collapsing on the cobblestones. Trying not to look at Michael's body, Donna loosened her friend's clothing, and propped her head against the overnight bag she'd been carrying. She wished she'd been wearing something that she could tear up and use for a flannel, but all she had on was jeans and a short sleeved lavender jumper.

Donna noticed that Violentia had dropped her overnight bag. Rummaging around in it, she found a cotton scarf. Taking that, Donna went off to find the hose she'd seen earlier, over by the garage. Wetting the scarf with cold water from the hose, she wrung it out and glanced up to where her friend was lying prone on the cobbles. However, Donna gave a start when she realized that Violentia was gone. Calling out to her friend, she wondered if Violentia had come to, then wandered off in a state of shock.

She was about to go search the rest of the stables area for her friend, when Donna felt something brush up against the back of her neck. Something that gave a strangely familiar droning whine. Whirling around, Donna gaped at something she'd never thought she'd ever see again: a giant wasp. It hovered over her head, giving a slight menacing buzz.

“Oh no you don't!” Donna told it. “You're not real. You can't be real. I saw you die!”

However, she felt a shudder of horror, when the big wasp turned its rear end towards her, the venom dripping stinger pointing directly at her chest. Reacting quickly, Donna put her thumb over the nozzle of the still-running hose, and sent a fierce spray of cold water into the wasp's bottom.

Without waiting to see the result, she sprinted back towards the house. Slamming the door behind her, Donna leaned her back against the front door, trying to catch her breath. She'd only just barely made it. But, she wasn't out of the woods yet. For, as she locked the door behind her, there was a great crash of glass in the next room, and the walls of the empty old home echoed with the angry whine of the wasp.

Now, she was hiding in the cellars, because that was the only door which had dead bolt lock on the inside, and looked solid enough to hold back the flying menace. Donna was huddled behind bottle racks of expensive wine, and boxes packed with musty and forgotten mementos, the material commemoration of the passage one's life. She couldn't seem to shake the feeling of doom which had settled over here, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. She looked up, and saw a flitting shadow pass one of the cobweb covered windows.

“Donna, you idiot,” she whispered to herself, rolling her eyes, “you would have to lock yourself in a cellar with windows. Duhh--!”

A few seconds later, one of the other windows rattled, as if someone--or something, was trying to get in. Donna frantically tore open the nearest box, hoping to find something she could use as a weapon. It occurred to her to grab one of the dusty, dark green bottles in the rack, but she discarded that idea. Her hands were shaking, and she didn't want to risk making noise if she should drop a bottle.. It would also be a waste of perfectly good wine.

She pulled out the contents of the box. A yellow rubber toy duck. Not going to distract the creature with that. The next item was a moth-eaten uniform jacket from WW I, followed by a tattered paperback copy of 'An Age of Kings,' a handful of faded horse show ribbons, a wicker fishing creel, a transistor radio, a headless teddy bear, a Victrola record of 'Me and My Shadow,' a water-stained print of a sea battle, a fake grass skirt with a coconut shell bra, a string-less ukulele, a dented toy steam shovel, and finally, at the bottom of the box, an old cricket bat. Donna eagerly picked it up with a big grin on her face.

“Right, matey.” She muttered determinedly under her breath, grasping the cricket bat with both hands. Somehow the bat gave her enough reassurance to stop her hands from trembling. “Now we'll see who'll be chasing whom, won't we?”

She jumped when she heard the cellar's old metal coal chute rattle, immediately followed by a low thump. The few windows there were, were only small panes of glass set just above the stone foundation of the house. Their sole function was to let in light. They didn't open or shut like proper windows. Donna held her breath. There was no insect-like sound though. Maybe it couldn't fit. Just when she hoped that was the case, Donna heard soft footsteps coming towards her. So, not the wasp then, but a person. Violentia? No, she doubted her posh friend would come swanning into the cellar down the coal chute.

Unbidden into her head, came visions of an evil, ax-wielding spirit, as the footsteps slowly came closer, and closer. Donna hated herself for feeling the way she did. She was shaking again with fright, beginning to sweat, her breath coming in quiet gasps. Her steel grip on the cricket bat, was, for the moment, her only comfort.

Slowly she rose, keeping her back between the shoulder high wooden wine rack, and a thick wooden support beam. The outline of a shadow advanced gradually by degrees towards the wine rack. Donna raised the bat over her head, ready to deliver a defensive blow.