Chapter 1
Part One: The Flat Upstairs
When Ryan Matthews landed a new job in London, he wasn’t quite ready for the shift. New city. New people. A new life that didn’t resemble anything he knew back in Leeds.
But fate, it seemed, had plans of its own.
He found a furnished 2-bedroom flat in Belsize Park, one of the city’s poshest pockets, for less than half the going rate. A five-minute walk from the Northern Line. Quiet street. Tree-lined. Almost... too perfect.
“The last tenants were an elderly couple,” the landlord had explained cheerily. “They’ve moved to Canada to live with their son.”
Then, as he handed Ryan the keys, he added with a shrug: “There’s one thing though... The attic room on the top floor stays locked. Storage, mostly. Old furniture. You won’t need the key.”
Ryan laughed. “No problem. I’ve no interest in dusty antiques.”
The flat itself was charming. High ceilings. Skylight windows. Wooden floors that creaked in all the right ways. Most tenants were professionals—leaving early, returning late.
Everything felt... ordinary.
Except the staircase.
The narrow stairwell leading up to the attic always carried a strange dampness. Not visible—but felt. The faint scent of mildew hung in the air like forgotten time. A chill seemed to cling to those steps. Not the cold of weather. Something older. Heavier.
Every time Ryan climbed past the third floor, his steps slowed. The plaster on the walls was peeling, the paint faded into bruise-coloured blotches. Sometimes, from the corner of his eye, the patterns looked like faces—twisted in agony or frozen in mid-scream.
And worst of all?
He always felt like someone was watching.
Not from the shadows. From the door above. The locked door.
A presence. Not seen. Not heard. But utterly felt.
