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There have been rumours for years that these woods are haunted.

That screams and cries echo through the trees once the sun has gone down, legends of a maid murdered by a lover, of a servant man found hanging from the old oak that grows beside the stream, its roots stretching out far below the waterline.

The cry that splits the air now is sharp enough to make your blood run cold.

The shrill, insistent cry of a baby.

The wails, high-pitched and frantic, rise up towards the thick summer leaves of the old oak before being swallowed by the rush of water.

The stream is swollen by the rain of the past few days, August storms that split the skies with thunder and lightning, fat raindrops bouncing off pavements.

The stink of the river fills the air, thick with sulphide.

The baby cries again, her face red, her fists pumping as rain drips from the canopy above her, splattering the mulchy leaves, her face, the blanket that covers her.

No onecomes.

An owl takes flight, swooping across the night sky, its white wings an elegant blur.

A rat, whiskery and pointy, sniffs the ground a few feet away before stepping towards the bag the baby lies in.

Sleek and fat, the rat tugs at the plastic with its razor-sharp teeth, nipping and tearing.

The baby cries again, a cry of distress and panic that would cut a mother to the bone, and the rat whisks away, sloping into the hollow of the oak tree.

The clear night air is chilly and damp, despite it being the tail end of summer, and the baby hitches in a breath, her chest heaving.

Her chubby hands fall to her sides, rustling against the bag covering her tiny body, damp from the rotting leaves seeping through a hole in the plastic, soaking the edges of her sleepsuit.

Cries turn to whimpers, faint and whispery, drifting away towards the stream before they can rise into the night sky.

Whimpers turn to gasps, the gasps to silence.

And still nobody comes.