Chapter 4

Elliot woke up slowly, drifting up through layers of foggy half-dreams until the pale morning light pressed against his closed eyelids. For a few long seconds, he lay still, listening to the quiet thrum of the house around him. The soft hum of pipes, the distant metallic tick of the radiator settling, the faint shuffle of fabric as he adjusted the covers.

When he finally checked the time, 8:31 a.m., he groaned softly and sat up, rubbing warmth into his arms. The air in his room held a lingering coldness that didn’t match the weather outside. He stretched, his joints clicking quietly in the morning stillness.

And then, without meaning to, his mind drifted back to last night.

Sam’s head, warm and heavy on his shoulder. Her breath soft and even against his shirt. The way she’d curled into him without hesitation, trusting, peaceful. The smile she’d given him when she woke, embarrassed but undeniably warm.

A surprising calm spread through him at the memory, softening the knot of anxiety that had been sitting in his chest ever since he’d gone upstairs alone. For a moment, the fear of Room 2, the pen, the dragging sound… all of it faded into the background, pushed aside by something gentler, lighter, confusing in a good way.

He allowed himself a quiet smile as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

But the calm didn’t last long.

He opened his bedroom door carefully, stepping into the hallway with the kind of caution reserved for dark basements in horror films. The patch of floor where the pen had sat last night drew his eyes immediately. His breath caught and then released.

It was gone.

No pen.

No sign it had ever been there.

Just cold floorboards and the quiet hum of the house waking up.

The chill lingered though, subtle, unnatural. The air in the hallway felt like it carried a faint draft, even though all the windows were firmly shut. He rubbed his hands together and made his way downstairs, trying not to overthink the temperature difference.

The kitchen was a welcome shock of warmth and sunlight. Steam curled from the kettle, catching in the morning light. The air smelled faintly of toasted bread and Jordan’s cereal. Jordan sat hunched at the dining table, hoodie hood half-falling off his head, staring at his bowl like it had personally wronged him. Harper stood at the counter, finishing the last of her tea as she neatly zipped her bag for work.

“Morning,” Elliot managed.

Jordan didn’t look up. He simply raised one finger in acknowledgement and made a low groaning noise that might have been language at some earlier point in human evolution.

Harper offered a gentler greeting. “Morning, Elliot. Sleep okay?”

He hesitated. Lied. “Yeah. Not bad.”

The truth was he’d slept terribly. Every time he drifted toward dreaming, he’d jerk awake again. At first from the lingering panic of the dragging sound, later from imagining faint movements in the hallway outside, and finally from the uneasy sensation that someone was standing just beyond his bedroom door. Even when he did fall asleep, it was shallow and restless, punctured by flashed of Room 2 and the memory of that brass pen lying exactly where he didn’t want it to be. His body felt stiff, his head foggy, and his nerves frayed at the edges from too many almost-wakeful hours.

“David’s already out,” she said, slipping her work shoes on. “He left before six. Poor man looked half-dead.”

Elliot poured himself a cup of tea, the warmth seeping into his palms. The normality of the moment eased him again. Sunlight, familiar faces, clattering mugs. For a moment, it was easy to pretend the night hadn’t been terrifying.

But Jordan wasn’t about to let him pretend.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, squinting at Elliot like he was trying to focus through fog. “Did you go up and down the stairs last night? Around midnight?”

Elliot paused halfway through stirring his tea. “No. Why?”

Jordan shrugged. “Heard footsteps. Quiet ones. Thought it was you going for water.”

Harper nodded. “I heard them too. I assumed someone needed the bathroom.”

Elliot shook his head. “Not me.”

Harper’s brows knit together, but she forced a small smile. “Well… old houses make noises. Could’ve been anything.”

But Elliot caught the flicker of doubt behind her eyes. The way she said the words for Jordan’s benefit, not her own, something in her expression softened when she realised he had noticed.

Before either of them could continue, footsteps sounded on the stairs above, heavy and familiar. Sam appeared in the doorway wrapped in an oversized beige jumper, hair wild and face puffy with sleep. She shuffled into the kitchen like someone emerging from hibernation.

“Morning,” she mumbled, sleeping blinking around the room.

Harper grinned. “Looking very alive today.”

Sam flipped her off half-heartedly before yawning. She walked past Elliot toward the kettle, brushing lightly against his arm, a gentle, fleeting contact that immediately warmed him more than the tea had.

“Morning,” she said quietly to him.

“Morning,” he replied, fighting a smile.

She started making her tea, then shivered suddenly and rubbed her arms. “It’s freezing upstairs today. Did someone leave a windows open?”

“No,” Harper said automatically. “Just the weather.”

Sam didn’t look convinced, but she moved on, reaching for the sugar with another yawn.

Jordan dropped his spoon with a clatter. “By the way, you all snore.”

“I don’t snore,” Sam said immediately.

“You definitely snore,” Jordan countered, pointing at her with his spoon. “You snored directly into Elliot’s soul last night.”

Sam went scarlet. “Ignore him,” she muttered to Elliot, avoiding his eyes.

“I’m trying,” Elliot whispered back, biting a grin.

Harper laughed softly as she slipped her coat on. “Right, I’m off. Have a good day, all of you.”

Jordan saluted with his spoon.

Sam waved lazily.

Elliot drank the last of his tea, letting the warmth anchor him.

For a moment, just a moment, everything felt normal again.

But when he glanced toward the stairwell, an involuntary chill ran down his arms. The memory of last night crept back in. the dragging sound beneath their feet, the rhythmic tapping from behind that black-painted door. The pen turning up exactly where he didn’t want it to be.

And all at once, he wasn’t sure if this house ever truly slept.

The house shifted into a slow, quiet rhythm once Harper left for work and Jordan trudged upstairs in search of a shower strong enough to wake him up. Sam lingered a few minutes longer, sipping her tea with heavy set eyes before finally heading upstairs to get dressed for uni. She passed Elliot on her way out, shoulder brushing his arm in that soft, casual way she always seemed to manage without thinking.

“Have a good day,” she said, tying her hair up into a loose ponytail.

“You too,” he replied, smiling despite himself.

The door clicked behind her, leaving Elliot in a house that suddenly felt too large and too still.

He climbed the stairs to the silent lounge, the place that had quickly become his chosen workspace. It was bright in the mornings, the wide window catching the sun and warming the worn rug and the second-hand furniture. Today the ait felt slightly cooler, but the quiet was welcoming. Predictable. Safe.

He set up at the small desk in the corner, opening his laptop, connecting to his meeting link, and slipping into his professional voice with an ease born of habit. The UI review call lasted just under an hour, a blur of feedback, screen sharing, function flow suggestions, and reminders about deadlines. He took notes, nodded in all the right places, and tried not to let the clinging fog of his poor sleep affect his tone.

By the time the meeting ended, the house had settling into near-complete silence.

Jordan was still upstairs, likely battling his hair with whatever appliance he trusted least. David wouldn’t return until early afternoon. Harper wouldn’t be back until later still. Sam was on campus for the day.

For the first time since he’d moved in, Elliot realised he was genuinely alone in the shared house.

The quiet pressed gently against him.

He exhaled slowly, trying to settle into his work. The lounge was warm in a soft, comforting was. Sunlight spilling across the armchairs, dust motes floating lazily through the air. The hum of his laptop filled the room with a faint familiar sound.

He clicked into his design software, adjusting a menu layout, thinking through the user flow of the sign-up process.

The silence deepened.

And then he heard it.

A faint, distant clack.

He froze, fingers hovering over the trackpad.

Another clack, softer this time. A quick decisive press of a key. Not a modern keyboard. No plastic. No hollow tap. These were sHarper. Metallic. Precise.

A typewriter.

Elliot swallowed. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, but the sound wasn’t coming from there. It was coming from beneath him. From the first floor. From Room 2.

Clack.

Clack-clack.

Clack.

He held his breath, listening. The pattern was slow, almost thoughtful, with the faint mechanical after-sound of an old carriage shuddering faintly back into place. It was unmistakable. Not a laptop, not a keyboard, not the radiator or the pipes.

Someone was typing.

He stood up from his chair almost involuntarily, moving slowly towards the doorway. The moment his foot touched the hallway floor, the temperature dipped. Not freezing, just noticeably colder than the Lounge, like stepping into the shallow edge of a shadow.

The house stayed still. 

He strained his ears.

Nothing.

The typing had stopped.

A floorboard creaked softly beneath his foot, the kind of creak that felt loud only because everything else was so quiet.

He waited, half-expecting the typewriter sound to start up again.

It didn’t.

After a long moment of lingering in the hallway, he forced himself to turn back into the Silent Lounge. He sat down again in front of his laptop, but his heart felt too fast, his breathing slightly too quick.

He tried working, opened a Figma file, rearranged a few icons, changed a colour theme, but ever few seconds, he glanced towards the doorway.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard more often than they types.

When the typewriter finally began again, quieter this time. Longer pauses between the clacks, Elliot did not get up to check. He stayed in his chair, muscles tensed, eyes fixed on the hallway, pretending to work while every part of him listened for the next sound.

Eventually, the typing faded into silence once more. Elliot let out a slow breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

It was only midday and the house already felt wrong.

By half twelve, Elliot's nerves were too frayed to focus on anything. Hed managed to get through the last of his wireframe adjustments, but the typewriter sounds had dug under his skin in a way he couldn’t quite shake. Every time he tried to sink into work, his ears betrayed him, straining for another metallic clack that he prayed wouldn’t come.

Eventually, he closed his laptop with a soft clink and pushed back from the desk. “Lunch,” me muttered to himself. “You need lunch.” 

The Silent Lounge was warm. The hallway outside was not.

The moment he stepped into it, the temperature dipped. Not cold, but noticeably cooler than the sunlit room behind him. This time, though, Elliot didn’t linger. He headed downstairs quickly, trying to outrun the strange prickle creeping up his arms.

The kitchen was a quiet and sun-drenched, almost peaceful. It felt like the only room in the house that didn’t hold its breath. He made a quick sandwich, hands moving automatically, and stood at the counter while he ate, listening to the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional thump from upstairs that he assumed was Jordan dropping something.

When he’d finished, he tossed his plate into the sink and started back towards the stairs, thinking vaguely about forcing himself to finish his afternoon tasks.

But halfway up, he froze.

There, on the fourth step from the top, resting perfectly parallel to the wooden grain…

The brass pen.

Not dropped. Not angled haphazardly like it had rolled down after being dropped. Placed.

A single, deliberate object lying in the centre of the step as though waiting for him.

Elliot's breath caught in his throat.

He looked behind him, expecting, no, hoping, that Jordan had suddenly appeared, or that Sam had come home early and was playing a weird prank. But the kitchen was empty. The hallway was empty. The air held the same faint chill he’d felt all morning.

He stared at the pen for several long, stretched-out seconds.

It hadn’t been there when he’d walked downstairs. He was certain of that. Absolutely certain.

His pulse hammered at his temples.

“Is… is anyone home?” he called, voice cracking slightly.

Silence.

Not the comforting kind of silence. The hollow kind, like the house was listening.

He swallowed hard and pulled his phone from his pocket. His hands shook slightly as he took a photo of the pen exactly where it lay, needing proof, needing something to reassure himself later that he hadn’t imagined any of this.

Only after the photo was safely saved did he crouch down. He didn’t touch the pen with his finger. Something in his instincts recoiled from the idea. Instead, he grabbed a clean tea towel from the banister and used it to lift the pen gingerly off the step.

Even through the towel, it felt cold.

He carried it back to the kitchen and set it on the dining table, right in the centre where he could see it from every angle. A safe place. Neutral, as far from Room 2 as he could manage.

“There,” he muttered, stepping back like he’d just placed a live spider under a glass.

He turned away only for a moment, enough time to grab a glass of water from the sink, to breathe, to tell himself that he was being ridiculous and everything was fine.

When he looked back at the table, the pen was gone.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

He spun, scanning the kitchen, the floor, the chairs, the counter…

Then he saw it.

At the base of the stairs. Neatly placed against the bottom step. As though it had walked itself there.

Elliot stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles went white.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, no.”

He didn’t go near it. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t even breathe too loudly.

Instead, he backed away slowly, never taking his eyes off the pen until the kitchen doorway was behind him. Then he fled up the stairs, pulse racing, nearly tripping on his last step in his haste.

He closed himself back in the Silent Lounge, chest tight, forcing breaths in and out until his heartbeat slowed down from frantic to just fast.

The room felt safer. Brighter. More stable.

Elliot had barely managed to steady his breathing when the front door clicked open downstairs. 

The sound jolted through him like a spark. He stood too quickly from the sofa, nearly tripping over the corner of the rug as he moved toward the Silent Lounge doorway. Footsteps entered the hallway below, light and familiar, and a moment later, Harper appeared at the bottom of the stairs, shrugging off her coat.

She looked up and startled slightly when she saw him leaning over the banister.

“Oh, Elliot. I didn’t expect anyone to be home,” she said, hanging her coat neatly on the hook. “Are you… alright?”

He must’ve looked awful, because Harper’s expression shifted immediately from polite surprise to genuine concern. She walked upstairs, her heels clicking softly on each step, pausing when she reached him.

“You look pale,” she said quietly. “What happened?”

Elliot opened his mouth and realised he didn’t have the energy to pretend. He gestured towards the Silent Lounge for Harper to follow him inside. Sunlight spilled across the space in warm golden streams, but it did nothing to dull the chill clinging to Elliot's skin.

Harper sat on the edge of the armchair, Elliot sat on the small sofa, hands clasped, elbows on his knees.

“It happened again,” he said.

“Again?” Her voice was gently but sharpened with worry.

Elliot told her everything. The typing. The pen on the stair, how carefully it had been placed, how he’d moved it with a towel, set it in the middle of the dining table, and how it had vanished the second he turned around. How it ended up at the bottom of the stairs, positioned almost deliberately.

Harper’s expression tightened with each sentence. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t even blink much. She simply listened, her fingers interlacing in her lap until her knuckles went while.

When he finished, there was a long silence.

Finally, Harper let out a slow breath. “Okay,” she said softly. “I need to tell you something. And it’s… something I haven’t told anyone. Not even Sam.”

Elliot's stomach dipped, the air feeling suddenly heavier.

Harper looked toward the hallway, checking instinctively that no one else was around, before leaning forward slightly.

“I’ve lived here two years,” she began. “And in all that time, I have never, not once, seen the person who supposedly lives in Room 2.”

Elliot swallowed. “Not even in passing?”

“Not even a shadow,” Harper whispered. “No footsteps, no voice, no movement I’ve been able to link to an actual human being.”

She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes distant.

“The landlord told me the tenant works nights. That’s the story. That’s always been the story.” She paused. “But I’ve never believed it.”

“Why not?” Elliot asked, though part of him already knew.

Harper hesitated, then sighed. “Because of the typing.”

Elliot froze.

Harper’s hands tightened together. “The second week I lived here… I woke up at two in the morning to this sound. Sharp. Metallic. Rhythmic. It wasn’t a keyboard. I know what keyboards sound like. This was older. More mechanical. A typewriter.”

His skin prickled.

“I remember lying there, listening to it for almost twenty minutes,” she continued. “It was coming from the first floor. From Room 2.” She swallowed, eyes flicking toward the floorboards unconsciously. “Exactly the way you heard it today.”

Elliot felt like the room was tilting slightly.

“And then one night,” Harper said, lowering her voice further, “it happened again. Louder this time. I was already stressed, I’d had a long day at work, and I just… snapped.” She gave a small, humourless laugh. “I stormed out of my room and knocked on the door.”

Elliot stared.

She met his eyes.

“And something knocked back,” she said.

Not a joke, not an exaggeration. Just a simple, horrifying truth.

“One knock,” she said, raising a single finger. “Just one. Hard. Like someone was standing right behind the door.”

“What did you do?” Elliot whispered.

“I froze.” She gave another small, shaky laugh. “I was too scared to speak. The silence after the knock was so intense I thought I’d imagined everything.”

But she hadn’t.

“After that,” Harper continued, voice quiet, “I pretended I believed the landlord’s story. It was easier than trying to explain why none of it added up.”

She sat back, exhaling slowly.

The sunlight in the room felt weaker now. Harsher.

Elliot rubbed his hands together. “So, what do you think is happening?”

Harper hesitated. 

She wasn’t someone who liked to be wrong. She wasn’t someone who jumped to supernatural conclusions. She was logical, grounded, controlled.

Which made her next words even worse.

“I don’t know who lives in that room,” she said. “But I don’t believe it’s who the landlord says it is. And I don’t believe they… live by normal hours.”

She looked down at her hands.

“Or by normal rules.”

Elliot swallowed hard.

Harper seemed to sense she’d gone too far, and she straightened, forcing her shoulders back, drawing in a deep breath.

“Look,” she said, gentle again, trying to sound reassuring. “We don’t know anything for certain yet. Houses make noises. Pipes do strange things. Maybe someone came home briefly, and you didn’t hear them. There are explanations.”

She didn’t believe a word she was saying.

Neither did Elliot.

“But,” she continued firmly “please don’t mention any of this to Sam. Not yet. She’ll panic. And Jordan… he’d turn it into a joke. Let’s just keep this between us until we understand more.”

Elliot nodded slowly, though unease thrummed through him. “Okay. For now.”

Harper gave him a small, tight smile and squeezed his arm gently before heading toward the stairs.

“I’m going to shower,” she said quietly. “Try to relax a little. Don’t work alone in the dark or anything.”

Elliot huffed a small laugh he didn’t feel.

By late afternoon, the house had settled into a quiet so complete it felt almost unnatural. Elliot sat in the Silent Lounge with his laptop open in front of him, but he’d stopped registering anything on the screen. His mind drifted back to Harper’s confession repeatedly, the typewriter, the knock.

Every time he looked toward the doorway, he half expected to see the brass pen sitting there again, waiting for him like a polite, impossible summons.

At one point he stood just to pace, hands on his hips, thoughts tangled. The silence pressed close around him. Every tiny creak of the house felt magnified now that he knew what Harper had heard. What he had heard. The settling of wood, the faint hum of the radiator.

It was a relief, a physical, almost desperate relief, when the front door finally opened downstairs.

Cold air surged into the hallway, carrying the smell of rain, wet pavement, and the distant rumble of a passing bus. Elliot froze on the landing. The front door clicked shut, followed by Sam’s unmistakable voice.

“Oh for… my jumper is soaked through. I hate this weather.”

He closed his laptop and practically jogged down the stairs, stopping just in time to avoid appearing overly eager. Sam stood by the entryway, peeling off her rain-spattered jacket. Her hair, usually fluffy or tied with some care, clung in damp strands to her forehead and neck. Droplets glistened on her eyelashes like tiny crystals catching the light.

Her cheeks were pink from the wind. She looked miserable… and really, really beautiful.

When she noticed him at the foot of the stairs, her face lit up instantly. That soft, warm brightness managed to settle something deep inside him.

“Oh! Hey,” she said, blowing a wet curl out of her eyes. “Didn’t think anyone else was home.” 

“Storm get you on the way back?” Elliot asked, stepping closer.

“Storm destroyed me,” she groaned. “The bus stop was basically a waterfall, and I was the rock underneath it.”

Without thinking, Elliot reached out. “Here, let me help.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard but not displeased. She raised her arms just slightly, letting him slide the soaked jacket off her shoulders. It was heavier than he expected, cold and dripping water onto the wooden floor. He carried it to the banister and draped it over the rail where it could drip safely without ruining anything.

Sam rubbed her arms and shivered.

“Thank you,” she murmured, voice softer now. Her fingers crushed his wrist, a tiny, instinctive gesture that made the air between them thrum with warmth.

“Long day at uni?” he asked, taking in her soaked jumper, clinging hair, and the resigned slump of her shoulders.

Sam groaned dramatically, dropping her bag by the shoe rack. “You have no idea. My lecture ran late, the seminar room was freezing, and then I got caught in a monsoon on the way back.” She pointed an accusatory finger upward. “Someone out there has a personal vendetta against me.”

Elliot smiled, tugging her heavy jacket more securely over the banister. “Sounds like the universe is testing your resilience.”

“The universe can get stuffed,” she muttered, wringing out the end of her sleeve. A thin line of water dripped onto the floor. “I swear, the bus stop turned into a waterfall the second I stepped under it. Actual targeted bullying.”

He chuckled, stepping closer without quite meaning to. “Do you want a towel or something? You look freezing.”

Sam brushed her damp hair back, trying to wrangle it into some shape resembling normality. “I’m fine. Just need to get changed into something that isn’t… you know…” She gestured at her whole body. “A human sponge.”

Elliot nodded toward the stairs. “Do you want me to bring your stuff up? Your bag looks heavy.”

Sam, surprised again by his instinct to help, smiled softly. “You’re going to make everyone else look bad at this rate.”

“I’ll take a pay rise in compliments.”

Sam laughed, but it came out tired and small. “Alright, deal.”

She picked up her bag, slinging it over one shoulder with a wince, it wasn’t heavy, just awkward when wet, and started towards the stairs. Elliot followed her, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her despite the chill of her clothes.

They reached the landing, both instinctively glancing toward Room 2’s door. Still. Black. Perfectly closed. The paint absorbed dim light, giving the door a strange heavy presence.

Sam shivered, though she tried to hide it by pulling her hair into a loose ponytail.

“God, its colder up here than downstairs,” she said. “Like the heating forgot this floor exists.”

“Yeah,” Elliot murmured. “It does that sometimes.”

She moved towards her room, pulling her key from her pocket as she approached the door. She reached the handle. 

And froze.

Her hand hovered there, knuckles brushing lightly against the wood.

“…What,” she whispered.

Elliot stepped up beside her. “Sam?”

She pushed the door gently with her fingertips. It swung open immediately.

Wide open.

Like it had been waiting.

“Elliot,” she breathed, voice suddenly very small, ‘I locked this before I left.”

For a moment neither of them moved.

Sam stood frozen in the doorway, eyes fixed on the gap where her door hung slightly ajar. Water dripped quietly from her haor onto the carpet. Elliot could practically feel her pulse from where he stood beside her.

She swallowed. “I definitely locked it. I remember hearing the click.”

Elliot nodded, steadying his voice even though his skin prickled with the same cold unease that has haunted him all day. “Let me check. Just… stay here a sec.”

Sam didn’t argue. She stepped aside, arms tightening across her chest as though bracing herself against both the chill, and the possibility that something, or someone, might be inside.

Elliot pushed the door fully open and stepped into her room.

Everything looked normal at first glance. Sam’s desk was cluttered in a way only an overworked students could be, covered in lecture notes, loose sheets filled with half-formed paragraphs, and a half-scribbled essay she had clearly abandoned mid-thought. An empty mug sat beside them, smudged with a faint ring of lipstick around the rim. Her duvet law twisted across the bed in a chaotic pile, exactly as she must’ve left it during her rushed dash to morning lectures. The string of fairy lights pinned above her headboard hung unlit and slightly crooked, swaying ever so faintly as though the door opening had disturbed them. Clothes were draped haphazardly over the back of her chair, a mix of jumpers, scarves, and a cardigan slipping slowly toward the floor. And on the carpet near the nec, an escaped sock lay alone and crumpled, the soft pastel fabric out of place against the dark flooring.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing overturned. Nothing obviously disturbed.

But the feeling of being watched crept up the back of his neck anyway.

He crouched slightly, checking beneath the desk, beneath the bed. Each dark space swallowing the light for a moment before revealing nothing more sinister than dust bunnies and a single missing sandal. The wardrobe doors were shut, but not latched, so he pulled them open cautiously.

Just clothes, a bag of shoes, and a stack of textbooks.

No intruders, no movement, nothing.

He rubbed his palms against his jeans and exhaled slowly. “It’s clear,” he said, standing straight again.

Sam hovered in the doorway, chewing her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Elliot said gently. “Everything looks untouched.”

She stepped inside now, just a few hesitant paces, scanning the room through narrowed eyes. Her shoulders relaxed, but not completely. She ran her fingers along the edge of her desk, almost like she was checking to see if anything had been moved a fraction of an inch.

After a long moment she let out a breath. “Okay… okay. Maybe I was just flustered this morning. Or maybe the lock didn’t catch properly.”

Elliot hesitated. He wanted to comfort her. He also wanted to tell her the truth, the part Harper told him, the part about the pen, the part about Room 2 never being as empty as it seemed.

But Harper was right. Sam would panic. And the last thing he wanted was to make her feel unsafe in her own room.

He nudged her shoulder lightly instead. “Could’ve just been the stiff hinge. I’ll take a look later if you want.”

Sam glanced up at him, eyes soft and grateful. “You really don’t have to keep fixing things for me, you know.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I want to.”

Her expression warmed at that, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth in a way that made Elliot's stomach flip.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Then… thank you.”

She brushed his arm as she moved past him, heading toward her wardrobe to grab dry clothes. Her fingers lingered a half-second, warm against his skin.

“You’re kind of a lifesaver,” she added, turning slightly away as though embarrassed to admit it.

Elliot backed toward the doorway, giving her space. “If there’s anything also you need, just yell. Or text. Or… yell and then text.”

Sam snorted softly. “Smooth.”

“Trying my best.”

He stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door halfway closed behind him to give her privacy, but not all the way. Not shut. He couldn’t bring himself to shut it fully. Not when it has opened on its own.

And not when Room 2 sat across the hall, silent and still.

Watching.

Back downstairs, the kitchen felt calmer than the rest of the house, as though its warmth and familiar clutter were somehow shielded from the unease pressing through the walls upstairs. Elliot stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hand submerged in hot, soapy water. Steam softened the cool air around him as he scrubbed the last pan clean, rinsed it, and placed it upside down on the drying rack with a soft clatter.

He wiped down the counters next, working slowly, methodically, letting the rhythmic motion clear the fog in his mind. It was a small thing, cleaning, but it grounded him in a way he desperately needed. After the pen. After Sam’s unlocked door. After Harper’s story. After everything.

The faint scent of washing-up liquid mixed with whatever spiced lingered from Jordan’s cooking. The house creaked occasionally in the quiet, old timber stretching, pipes settling, not unusual sounds, but every single one made him pause for a heartbeat before he forced himself to continue wiping.

By the time he stepped back to look at the spotless worktops, his heartbeat had calmed a little. The kitchen felt restored. Normal. Safe, even.

He dried his hands on a tea towel, took a breath, and stepped into the hallway. Then, raising his voice so it carried upwards, he called: “I’m. ordering Chinese for everyone! My treat! If you want something, come tell me!”

His voice echoes up the stairwell, bouncing off the walls. A second later he heard movement. Soft footsteps, doors opening, surprised voices drifting down towards him. And for the first time that day, Elliot didn’t feel alone in the house anymore.

Harper appeared first, her footsteps light and quick on the stairs. She poked her head around the doorway with a bright, curious smile.

“Free dinner?” she said, eyebrows lifting. “That’s one way to win the house over.”

Elliot laughed. “I’m trying to cement my place here.”

“Well, consider it working,” she said, stepping into the kitchen and leaning her hip against the counter. “What we thinking? Noodles? Rice? Both?”

Before Elliot could answer, heavier footsteps thudded on the stairs, followed by Jordan skidding around the banister like an overexcited dog.

“Did someone say Chinese?” he asked, eyes wide with dramatic urgency. “Because if so, I’m legally required to order something spicy enough to ruin my night.”

“Hi, Jordan,” Harper said dryly.

He pointed at her. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

Elliot snorted. “Alright, come tell me what you want.”

Jordan launched straight into an enthusiastic ramble about chili heat levels as he joined them but paused mid-sentence when the front door clicked open. A rush of cool air swept briefly through the hallway.

David stepped inside, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up and faintly wrinkled. He looked tired but calmer than he had yesterday. When he saw the others gathered in the kitchen, he offered a small, polite nod.

“Evening,” he said. Smells like you’re planning something.”

“Elliot's buying everyone Chinese,” Harper announced cheerfully.

David let out a low hum of acknowledgment. “That sounds nice, but I ate while I was out. I’ll take a beer though.”

Elliot grabbed one out from the fridge and handed it over. David accepted it with a grateful half-smile, then leaned quietly against the doorframe, content to watch the chaos unfold.

A few seconds later, soft footsteps padded down the stairs, lighter and slower than the others. Sam appeared at last, her hair still slightly damp at the ends but neatly braided, wrapped in a warm jumper and leggings. When she saw Elliot in the centre of the kitchen, her whole face brightened.

“You’re treating everyone?” she asked, stepping in beside him.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging with a small smile. “Housewarming gift. Or… Thank you for accepting me gift. Something like that.”

Sam nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “I think it’s really sweet.”

Jordan groaned loudly. “Stop flirting, you two. I’m starving.”

“Jordan,” Harper said, “you’re always starving.”

“Exactly,” he replied, as if to prove his point.

Elliot pulled out his phone. “Alright then, give me your orders before Jordan starts chewing the table.”

They circled around him, tossing out preferences, jokes, and arguments over who got to share which dishes. The kitchen felt warm, noisy in the best way, bustling with the comfortable chaos of people who genuinely liked being around each other.

And as Elliot phoned in their orders, surrounded by the hum of voices and laughter, the house didn’t feel cold or haunted.

It felt like home.

Once the initial excitement over dinner settled, Harper stretched her arms above her head and let out a soft sigh. “Alright gentleman, lady. Let’s migrate. The kitchen’s too small for Jordan to start pacing.

Jordan gasped theatrically. “I never pace. I glide.”

“You trip over your own shoes,” Harper said, brushing past him toward the doorway.

“I glide with style,” Jordan insisted, following her.

The group drifted from the kitchen into the downstairs lounge in that easy, unspoken way people do when they’ve settling into a comfortable rhythm with each other. The lounge felt warmer than the hallway, lit softly by two side lamps and the muted glow of the streetlights through the curtains.

Jordan immediately claimed the biggest sofa, launching himself into it like a man diving onto a mattress in an advert. “This,” he announced, stretching out like a starfish, “is where the magic of digestion will happen.”

Harper rolled her eyes and curled into the armchair across from him, folding one leg under herself with precise elegance. “Try not to fall asleep before the food arrives,” she said.

“No promises.”

Sam lingered beside Elliot for a moment, as though waiting for him to choose where to sit. When he moved toward the two-seater, she followed and settled beside him, closer than strictly necessary, but not uncomfortably so. Her knee brushed his when she shifted, and she didn’t move it away.

David stood by the doorway, sipping his beer and watching the group with a calm, collected air. He looked less exhausted than he had that morning, the faint lines around his eyes softened by the warm lighting and the quiet buzz of conversation.

Jordan glanced between them all with a grin, “Elliot, mate, you realise this is how you buy loyalty right? Food. That’s it? Basic human psychology.”

Elliot laughed. “If I wanted to buy loyalty, I’d start with you.”

“Smart man,” Jordan said. “Very smart.”

Harper chimes in with a teasing smile, “Well, whatever your motive, Elliot, its working. This is very sweet of you.”

Sam nudged him gently with her shoulder. “Really sweet.”

David nodded over the rim of his bottle. “Kind gesture,” he said simply, but there was genuine appreciation in his voice.

They settled naturally into conversation as they waited for the food to arrive, filing the lounge with warm, mismatched voices.

Harper launched into a story about someone at her office submitting an edited document that still had the editor’s snarky comments in the margin. Jordan countered with a tale from a photography gig where a swan chased him halfway across a park. Sam laughed so hard she nearly leaned fully into Elliot, catching herself at the last second, cheeks warming.  She followed it up with a tired rant about her lecture hall heater being broken and everyone slowly turning into popsicles.

Elliot found himself relaxing for the first time all day. Sam’s knee against his, her low laugh beside him, Harper’s dry humour, Jordan’s chaotic energy, David’s quiet interjections. It all warmed the room, filling it with a sense of belonging he hadn’t realised he craved.

At one point, Sam shifted slightly and her shoulder brushed his again, warm through the fabric of her jumper. She didn’t pull away this time. Neither did he.

After finishing his beer, David excused himself politely. “Gonna take a quick shower,” he said. “I’ll be back down in a bit.”

They murmured their acknowledgments as he headed upstairs. The sound of his footsteps faded quickly, replaced by the low hum of the lounge.

The group carried on talking while they waited, but occasionally Elliot found his gaze drifting to the stairwell. The house was quiet upstairs. Too quiet.

He tried to ignore the faint prickle at the back of his neck, the one that had warned him of every odd moment today, but the warmth of the room made it easier to push aside.

Sam nudged him again at something Harper said, drawing him back into the present.

The doorbell rang sharply through the house, cutting through the warm conversation in the lounge. Everyone startled a little, even Jordan, who sat bolt upright despite having been half-asleep on the sofa a moment ago.

“That’ll be it,” Elliot said, pushing himself up from the two-seater.

“I’ll help,” Sam said immediately, already on her feet.

They crossed the hallway together, and Elliot opened the front door to a blast of cool evening air and a courier balancing two large paper bags. After quick thanks and a tip, Elliot lifted the larger bag, heavier than expected, and carried it inside, while Sam grabbed the second one, grinning at the warm scent of spices rising from the top.

Jordan materialised behind them halfway to the kitchen, hands outstretched like a child trying to peek at presents. “Is that… prawn crackers? Please tell me there are prawn crackers.”

“There are prawn crackers,” Sam said, nudging him with her elbow, “and you’re not allowed to eat them until everything’s on the table.”

“Harsh. Cruel. Unnecessary,” Jordan muttered, but followed them anyway.

The kitchen filled with voices and movement. Elliot set the bags down and began unpacking containers, lining them up neatly along the counter. Sam hovered beside him, popping lids open and sliding napkins and chopsticks into little piles. Harper wandered in with a stack of plates and cutlery, quietly rearranging things behind them in a more logical order.

Jordan took it upon himself to open the prawn crackers and “test one for safety,” which earned him a slap on the arm from Harper.

The scent of sesame oil, sweet chili, garlic, and ginger quickly spread through the room, warm and familiar. Something about it grounded the space, made it feel like any other shared house, any other late-night dinner with friends.

David appeared in the doorway then, hair still damp from his shower, sleeves rolled back and a fresh beer in his hand. He paused to take in the scene, Sam laughing as she flicked a noodle at Jordan, Harper carefully rearranging the rice containers, Elliot sorting the sauce tubs. For a moment, his expression softened.

“Smells good,” he said quietly.

“It really does,” Harper agreed, offering him a small smile.

Elliot stepped back to survey the spread: cartons lines neatly, plates stacked, sauces arranged in a row, napkins fanned out in a way that was definitely more effort than needed.

But seeing everyone gathered in the kitchen, warm, talking, close, make the work worth it.

“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands once, “Let’s eat.”

The dining table looked almost festive.

Jordan immediately took the seat nearest the dumplings, rolled up his sleeves as though preparing for battle. Harper settled gracefully into the chair beside him. Sam slipped into the seat to Elliot's right, close enough that her knee brushed his under the table. She pretended not to notice. Elliot absolutely noticed.

David hovered by the doorway for a moment, beer in hand, clearly intending not to intrude. But Harper nudged and empty chair with her foot.

“Sit. Even if you’re not eating much,” she said.

 Sam gestured toward an open carton. “There’s loads. You should have some.”

David gave a soft exhale, half-defeated, half amused. “Alright. A little.”

He took the seat next to Harper, accepting a modest spoonful of rice and a piece of chicken.

They began eating in a comfortable, overlapping chorus of cutlery clinks and appreciative murmurs. Jordan groaned dramatically after his first bite.

“This,’ he announced, “is better than therapy.”

Harper didn’t look up from her noodles. “Jordan, everything is better than therapy to you. Including stress.”

Sam laughed, leaning toward Elliot slightly as she did. “Honestly, he’s not wrong. These noodles are incredible.”

Elliot grinned. “I’ll take that as a sign I ordered well.”

Jordan pointed a chopstick at him. “You ordered perfectly. If you ever leave this house, I’ll weep.”

Conversations flowed easily, Harper’s dry humour balancing out Jordan’s dramatics, Elliot and Sam quietly teasing each other between mouthfuls. The warmth of the room, the closeness of everyone around the table, the soft lamplight flickering gently against the window. It all wrapped around Elliot like a blanket.

Halfway through the meal, David surprised everyone by clearing his throat.

“When I was twelve,” he began, looking at his plate as if unsure this was wise, “I ran away from home.”

Jordan choked on a dumpling. “What? You? No way.”

David nodded. “Packed a bag. Very dramatic. I grabbed two sandwiches, a jumper, and… one sock.”

Elliot blinked. “Just one?”

“One sock,” David repeated, deadpan. “Not a pair. Just the one.”

Sam nearly dropped her chopsticks laughing. “Why?”

“No idea,” David said. “My twelve-year-old self was a mystery. Anyway, I made it to the end of the street, it started raining, and I immediately reconsidered every life choice I’d made.”

Jordan was wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh-oh god. What did you do?”

“Stood under a tree for twenty minutes trying to ‘figure out my next move.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “My next move was apparently crying.”

Harper snorted so loud she startled herself.

David took a small sip of his beer. “Then my dad turned up holding an umbrella… and the other sock.”

The table dissolved into laughter. Loud, genuine, gut-shaking laughter. Even David cracked a small smile, the kind that crinkled the corner of his eyes.

By the times plates had been picked clean and cartons half-empties, David stood, finishing his beer.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said quietly. “I’m heading up. Early shift.”

They all murmured goodnights as he slipped out.

The remaining four lingered, talking softly and picking at leftovers well past the point of hunger. Elliot felt Sam’s knee touch his again, deliberate this time, and warmth bloomed in his chest.

They drifted back into the downstair lounge with the comfortable laziness that only follows a good meal. The warm lamplight softened the edges of the room, throwing gentle shadows across the furniture and making feel smaller, cosier, like the house itself had lowered its shoulders and exhaled.

Jordan reclaimed the big sofa with a theatrical determination, dropping onto it like a man returning to his throne. “Ah,” he sighed, settling in, “post-dinner horizontal mode engaged.”

Harper laughed under her breath and moved to her armchair, tugging one of the lounge’s throw blankets over her legs with the slow, deliberate movements of someone preparing for hibernation. She curled up neatly; the blanket tucked under her chin.

Sam hesitated for half a heartbeat before sliding back into the two-seater beside Elliot, just as she had earlier. She folded her legs up underneath herself, and as she got comfortable, her knee gently touched his. She didn’t shift away. Neither did he.

Conversation picked up again in the familiar, pleasant rhythm of a group full of good food. Jordan launched into a story about a client who insisted on being photographed only from “the left side, the spiritually superior side,” which prompted Harper to counter with a story about a coworker who wrote an entire email without realising autocorrect had replaced “kind regards” with “king lizards”. Sam nearly choked on her own breath laughing at that.

The voices filled the room in a soft, low murmur, drifting lazily from topic to topic. Uni deadlines, awful printers, a viral video Jordan insisted everyone watch later, the bizarre weather over the past week. The tone was quiet, intimate, the kind of evening that felt like it could stretch on forever.

And yet… Elliot kept finding himself glancing toward the stairwell.

It wasn’t even conscious at first. Just a flicker of his eyes, a subtly pull of attention. 

But over time it built: an awareness of the silence above them, heavy and unmoving. He tried to remind himself that the house was old, that houses creaked, that he was being silly. But earlier strange events had burrowed somewhere deeper, a persistent, humming threat of unease.

Sam noticed.

She leaned a little closer, voice dropping so only he could hear. “Hey. You alright?”

Elliot blinked, then nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired, I think.”

She studied him for a moment longer, as though weighing whether to believe him. Then she offered a soft smile, warm, reassuring, and gently rested her shoulder against his. He relaxed into it. Just a bit.

Harper was retelling something absurd about office kettle etiquette, Jordan was insisting the kettle should count as communal property and therefore a communal responsibility, and Sam laughed softly as she tucked herself a little further into Elliot's arm.

The warmth of the room deepened around them, a cocoon of soft voices and safe closeness.

For a little while, it felt like nothing strange could touch them.

Sam leaned lightly against Elliot's shoulder, breathing a soft laugh through her nose. Harper tucked her blanket more comfortably around her legs. The lamplight pooled in soft gold around them.

The quiet stretched just long enough to feel comfortable.

Then the ceiling above then groaned, not a creak, not a random pop of the wood settling, but a slow, heavy dragging sound. The kind that rumbles downward through timber and bone. 

It started near the landing, screeching faintly, and travelled several feet before stopping abruptly. A thick, weighted scrape across floorboards. Like a piece of furniture being pulled… or something larger.

The sound was so real, so physical, that Elliot felt it in his ribs.

Harper froze mid-breath, her fingers digging into the blanket with knuckles whitened. Jordan’s posture snapped from relaxed sprawl to full, locked tension, every muscle stiff as if bracing for impact. Elliot's heart hammered violently beneath his ribs.

But Sam…

Sam reacted without hesitation, pure instinct.

She pressed closer in one fluid motion, grabbing Elliot's arm and pulling it around her shoulders as she curled into his side. Her breath hitched softly against his chest. He held her instantly, protectively, without thinking, as if his body answered a question his mind hadn’t yet asked.

No one spoke.

The house swallowed its own noise as if aware it had revealed too much.

Sam’s whisper broke the stillness like a crack in glass. “Elliot… that came from upstairs.”

Her voice was small, trembling slightly, but certain. Elliot nodded, unable to force words past the tightness in his throat.

Harper cleared her throat, a sharp brittle sound, and tried to compose herself. “It’s an old house,” she said quickly. “Pipes… um… pipes shift. Or the floorboards, they expand and… contract.”

She was talking too fast. Her voice was too thin. Her explanation was the verbal equivalent of paper shielding someone from a storm.

Sam lifted her head just enough to look toward Harper, still tucked firmly beneath Elliot’s arm. “That was not pipes,” she said quietly but firmly. “And David’s asleep. There’s no one else up there.”

Jordan attempted a shaky breath of laughter, as if trying to drag himself back into the role of comic relief. “Yeah, maybe it’s… I don’t know… the ghost of King Lizard himself moving furniture around so he can write more emails.”

But his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him.

Silence fell again. Thick. Dense. 

They all listened. Every breath held. Every muscle tight.

They waited for the noise to repeat. To move again. To confirm itself.

But it didn’t.

The absence of a second sound was somehow worse, like something upstairs knew they were waiting for it and chose not to play along.

Elliot felt Sam’s fingers curl lightly into his jumper, holding on. He tightened his arm around her reflexively, grounding himself in her warmth, her closeness, her trembling breath.

Jordan slowly, cautiously leaned back against the sofa, but kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Harper forced her posture to relax but never let go of the blanket.

None of them said it out loud, but every one of them felt it. Something had moved upstairs. Something big. Something deliberate. 

And none of them wanted to see what.

Finally, Jordan exhaled in a thin, shaky laugh, a pale imitation of his usual bright energy.

“O-Okay… well… if the house wanted attention, it definitely has it.”

Harper gave a soft, tense exhale that passed for a laugh. 

Sam didn’t laugh. She remained pressed against Elliot, his arm still firmly around her shoulders, as though letting go might invite the sound to return.

Conversation resumed in stilted fragments, cautious and quiet, each person pretending to be calmer than they felt. Something invisible had shifted the room, dimmed the warmth, chilled the air.

Harper checked the time on her phone, the screen lighting her face in a soft blue glow. Her brow tightened just enough for Elliot to notice.

“It’s later than I thought,” she murmured, nudging Jordan’s leg gently with her foot. “We should head up.”

Jordan, who had been staring cautiously at the ceiling for the last few minutes, nodded. “Yeah… yeah, that’s probably wise.” His usual theatrics had thinned into something subdued and careful. He stood, stretching stiffly, then offered the room a small, tired wave. “Night, guys.”

“Night,” Sam said quietly.

“Goodnight,” Elliot echoed.

The couple walked out of the lounge together, their steps slower and more deliberate than usual. They crossed the hall and climbed the stairs, their voices low, almost whispers, as they reached the landing. Jordan’s hand rested on the small of Harper’s back as they disappeared up the second flight towards Room 4. Their door closed softly, and their muted presence vanished into the floorboards above.

The house fell noticeably quieter.

Sam shifted closer to Elliot on the two-seater, the warm dim lamplight turning everything a soft gold.

For a moment they sat without speaking, the silence gentle rather than uncomfortable. The warmth of dinner lingered, but the tension from the dragging sound still hung somewhere just outside their circle of lamplight.

Sam exhaled slowly. “I really… don’t like how that sounded.”

Elliot nodded. “I know. It didn’t sound like anything I’d call normal.”

“It felt…” She frowned at her hands. “Like whatever it was knew we were down here.”

Elliot didn’t have an answer to that. But he kept his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into the touch just a little more.

Another minute passed like that. Quiet, shared, grounding.

Then Sam glanced toward the darkened hallway. “I don’t want to go up there alone.”

He turned to her, eyebrows lifting gently.

She swallowed. “Elliot… could I maybe stay with you for tonight? Just until I’m… less freaked out.”

Her voice was small, embarrassed, but undeniably honest.

He softened instantly. “Yeah. Of course.”

Relief washed over her face, a subtle dropping of her shoulders, a calmer breath. “Thank you.”

They rose together and switched off the lamp, letting the lounge fall into murky shadows. The house’s silence greeted them like something conscious.

Side by side, they walked into the hallway and began climbing the stairs. Each creak beneath their feet felt too sharp, too loud. When they reached the first-floor landing, they both instinctively kept their eyes fixed forward, refusing to glance at the closed door of Room 2.

Sam moved a fraction closer, brushing Elliot's wrist with her fingers.

They climbed the next flight more quickly, reaching the second floor where the ait felt a little colder. Elliot's door, Room 5, waited at the end of the short corridor. He unlocked it quietly and pushed it open.

Sam stepped in behind him, pausing in the doorway as he switched on the small lamp by his bed. The room glowed softly, still in the tidy arrangement he’s created earlier.

“Um,” Sam said, shifting slightly, cheeks warming. “Could I… borrow something to wear? For sleeping?”

“Yeah, of course.” Elliot crossed to the drawers, pulling out a clean t-shirt and a pair of loose lounge shorts. “Here, these should fit well enough.”

He offered them with a small, reassuring smile.

“I’ll… step outside for a minute so you can change.”

But Sam shook her head quickly, holding the clothes to her chest. “No! Don’t. I don’t want you to leave.” She glanced around the room, nerves flickering through her expression. “Just… turn around?”

Elliot’s heart thumped once, hard, but he nodded and turned to face to opposite wall, respectfully staring at the brush marks in the paint while he listened to the soft rustle of fabric behind him.

After a few moments, Sam’s voice came gently. “Okay. I’m ready now.”

He turned. She was standing near the bed in the oversized t-shirt, sleeves brushing her elbows, bare legs tucked modestly behind each other. She looked smaller like that, fragile in a way that tugged at something protective inside him.

Sam lifted the duvet and climbed into the bed, pulling it up to her chest. She gave him a shy smile. “Come on. It’s fine. I promise I won’t hog the blankets”

Elliot let out a short, warm huff of laughter and crossed to the other side of the bed. He slipped beneath the covers and deliberately turned to face the wall, away from her, to show he wasn’t making assumptions. Wasn’t trying to make this into anything more than comfort.

Sam reached out under the blankets and lightly touched his back. “Thanks… for not making me feel stupid.”

“You’re not,” Elliot said softly, eyes closed. “You’re scared. I get it.”

The quiet of the room pressed around them, but this silence felt different from the house’s emptiness. Safer. Shared.

Within a minute, Sam shifted closer, pressing into his back lightly. her forehead brushed between his shoulder blades; her hand rested softly against his spine. Her breathing slowed, steady, calmer now. Tension finally easing in the dark.

Elliot closed his eyes, focus narrowing on the warmth at his back and the quiet rhythm of her breathing,

In the silence of Room 5, the house felt still.

For tonight, at least, neither of them was alone.