Chapter 2

Elliot woke to the soft rattle of pipes in the wall. 

For a moment he didn’t know where he was. The window at his feet was a glowing rectangle of pale morning light, the ceiling slanted so low he could have reached up and touched it. His pillow smelled faintly of lavender and dust. The bed frame creaked under him and he shifted.

Then the memories fell back into place: the long drive, the awkward rush of the landlord, the black painted door on the first floor, the creak he’d heard before falling asleep.

Right.

Room 5.

New house.

New everything.

He sat up slowly, rubbing the stiffness from his neck. The room looked different in daylight, smaller but warmer, the ivory walls glowing faintly where the sun brushed them. The plant he’d placed on the drawers the night before leaned towards the light like it had already claimed the room as home.

He checked his phone: 10:17 a.m. the house signal had finally settled; a cluster of notifications blinked across the screen. He ignored then, listening instead.

Voices drifted up faintly from the ground floor, someone humming, someone else speaking in short energetic bursts. The steady clink of cutlery. A cupboard door shutting. The kettle reaching a boil. Little pieces of life happening elsewhere in the house.

It felt less empty that it had yesterday.

He swung his legs out of bed and stretched. The floorboards were cool beneath his feet, smooth with age. Every step he took seemed to produce a different tone. A creak, a dull thud, a soft groan where the boards dipped slightly near the door.

The bathroom at the top of the stairs greeted him with a blast of cold tiles, and a shower that sputtered before finally producing water. The pressure was weak, almost apologetic, but the steam warmed the air enough to take the chill off. He washed quickly, condensation blooming across the mirror, and stepped back into the hallway feeling marginally more awake.

Downstairs, the house awaited him, real housemates, introductions, the routine of fitting himself into a life already in motion.

He braced himself and headed for Room 4.

He knocked lightly.

Movement stopped inside the room, followed by the soft thump of someone crossing to the door. It opened a moment later, revealing a man with messy, stylish hair and the kind of smile than made strangers feel like old friends.

“You must be Elliot!” the man said, stepping back just enough to widen the doorway. “Come in, come in. I’m Jordan.”

“Hi,” Elliot said. “Sorry if I’m interrupting anything.”

“Interrupting?” Jordan repeated, scoffing dramatically. “Mate, you could set of fireworks in this corridor, and I’d still say come in. Harper, love, new guy’s here!”

Room 4 looked like the kind of space couples curated through careful compromise. A double bed with a soft grey duvet took up most of the room. A desk sat against the window, arranged neatly with notebooks, coloured tabs, and a stack of papers Harper was clearly working through, judging by the pencil tucked behind her ear.

Harper turned slightly, offering a warm, understanding smile. She had a kind of effortless neatness about her. Calm posture, clean lines to her clothes, auburn hair brushed back neatly.

‘Hi,” she said. “Welcome to the chaos. Tea?”

“He said no to tea,” Jordan said observing you shaking your head as Harper had already turned her back. “But that might’ve been fear.” Jordan teased.

“It wasn’t fear,” Elliot said, smiling despite himself. “But I’m good for now.”

Jordan rested his hands on his hips. “So, new city, new house, new room. Must be a hell of a month for you.”

“Something like that,” Elliot said. “Just wanted a change. Fresh start.”

Harper turned back, her smile softened. “You picked a good place. Once you learn which floorboards to avoid.”

“And which radiator,” Jordan added. “And which cupboard door eats fingers.”

Elliot blinked. “Which what?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Harper sighed. “He’s being dramatic.”

“I’m being cautious,” Jordan countered. We don’t want him losing fingers on day one.”

Elliot laughed. A real, loosening laugh he’d needed more than he realised. He liked them already. They seemed easy, balanced. A kind of anchor in the strange newness of the house.

Harper nodded towards the door across the landing. “Silent Lounge is yours to use whenever. One Rule: quiet only. Reading, studying, laptops. It’s the one place Jordan doesn’t fill with noise.”

“That’s a lie,’ Jordan said. “Sometimes I hum.”

Elliot thanked them and stepped back out into the hallway, feeling lighter.

He approached the Silent Lounge with the reverence of someone entering a library. The door stood ajar, and he nudged it open with care.

The room smelled faintly of coffee. A soft rug covered most of the floorboards, and two desks were pushed against opposite walls. One held an open laptop and a pair of headphones; the other a stack of books lined neatly beside a small desk lamp. A jigsaw lay half-finished on the table in the centre, a night sky scene missing large stretches of stars.

The atmosphere was warm, focused, peaceful.

This, he thought, is going to be my favourite room.

He stepped out quietly, pulling the door closed behind him with a gentle click.

The first-floor landing was noticeably narrower. Three doors, a bathroom, and walls that bore the wear of decades of people brushing past them. Elliot knocked on Room 1.

The door cracked open just enough to reveal David Mercer. Tall, thin, shoulders slightly hunched. His pale green eyes flickered briefly to Elliot’s face, then away again.

“Hi,” Elliot said. “I’m Elliot. Just moved into Room 5.”

David nodded once. “Right. Welcome.”

His voice was soft, but not unkind. Behind him Elliot glimpsed the edge of a neatly made bed, a perfectly aligned pair of trainers, a bedside table with a single book and a glass of water.

“Hope you settle in well,” David said, already beginning to close the door.

“Thanks,” Elliot murmured, but the door clicked shut before he could finish.

Odd man.

Not rube, just untouched around the edges somehow. As though conversation were a language he only half understood.

When Elliot turned to Room 2, he paused.

The black-painted door looked even more distinct in daylight. Too dark against the cream walls, the paint a matt void that absorbed the hallway light. The handle was brushed metal, old-fashioned, the kind made when things were built to last.

He raised his knuckles and knocked lightly.

The sound felt duller than he expected, as though the door swallowed it whole.

He waited.

No footsteps.

No shifting inside.

No sign of life.

He knocked again, a bit louder.

Still nothing.

Then...

“Yeah, don’t bother.”

Elliot turned.

The door marked 3 was open a crack, and a young woman peered out from behind it. Her hair, thick, dark, and curly, was piled into a messy bun held together by determination and a pencil. She wore an oversized navy hoodie with a faded logo and pyjama shorts despite the cool hallway air. A pair of fuzzy socks peeked out beneath her, mismatched in colour but united in their determination to fight the cold. She held a large mug plastered with astronomy stickers, steam curling lazily from the top.

Seeing she had his attention; she stepped fully into the doorway. Up close, her eyes were dark brown, ringed with the kind of tiredness that came from multiple all-nighters. But there was a spark behind them, a quick intelligence and a good-natured humour that softened her exhausted expression.

She straightened a little and offered him a hand.

“Samira Patel,” she said, enunciating like she’d answered this question many times. Then her expression softened. “But call me Sam. Everyone does. Except my mum. She only uses the full version when she’s about to lecture me.”

Elliot shook her hand. “Elliot. Room 5.”

“Oh! New guy.” Sam brightened. “That makes sense. You’ve definitely got the ‘I don’t know where the bins are yet’ face.”

He laughed nervously. “I was just trying to introduce myself. Thought I should meet the person in Room 2.”

Sam snorted into her mug. “Good luck with that. I’ve lived here nine months and never seen him. Never even heard him. Not once. If there is someone in there, he’s either the quietest man alive, or he’s learned to phase through walls.”

“The landlord said he works nights,” Elliot said.

“Mm-hm,” Sam replied, raising an eyebrow. “The landlord also once told Jordan the boiler ‘heals itself with time,’ so I wouldn’t put too much faith in that.”

She leaned casually against her doorframe, cradling her mug in both hands.

“Could be empty,” she continued. “Could be someone who genuinely works weird hours. Could be a trapdoor to Narnia. Who knows? But trust me, you’ll never see him.”

Elliot glanced back at the black door. Up close he saw the paint had a smoother texture, as if it had been redone recently. Fresher than the other doors. Newer than it should be.

“Anyway,” Sam said, stepping back inside her room. “Welcome to the madhouse. If you ever need Wi-Fi passwords, emotional support, or someone to complain about deadlines with, Room 3 is your port of call. Just not before 10 a.m.”

She lifted her mug like a toast.

“Welcome, Elliot.”

Her door clicked shut again, leaving Elliot alone with the black-painted mystery beside him, silent as ever.

Elliot climbed the stairs back to the second floor, feeling more awake than he had since opening his eyes that morning. Meeting Jordan and Harper had put him at ease, and Sam’s chaotic friendliness had helped chase away the last of the awkward new-tenant anxiety. Even David’s brief, stiff greeting felt like progress.

Still, Room 2 lingered like an unfinished sentence.

He stepped onto the second-floor landing, where the late-morning light poured through the small window at the corridor’s end. It was bright enough to warm the wooden floorboards and make the dust in the air shimmer faintly. Somewhere behind Room 4’s door came the muted sound of drawers opening and closing, and the soft murmur of Jordan and Harper talking. The Silent Lounge sat quiet as ever, door slightly ajar, the room inside glowing gently with natural light.

Back in Room 5, Elliot let the door close behind him and paused, taking in the space again with fresh eyes. Morning suited the room. The window spilled sunlight across the floor, illuminating the pale ivory walls and making the narrow space look clearer, cleaner, less like a rented box and more like something he could shape into a home.

He crossed to the chest of drawers and nudged his plant a little closer to the beam of sunlight. The leaves warmed under the brightness, and he found himself hoping, irrationally, that the plant appreciated the gesture. His sketchbook sat waiting on the chair, the photograph of his sister angled neatly on the bedside table catching a sliver of light. His jacket hung from the back of the chair in the casual, unintentional way that meant it was already becoming part of the room.

He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the duvet where it dipped under his weight.
It felt good.
Settling.
Stable.

He lay back; hands tucked behind his head and listened as the house moved around him.

Downstairs, someone laughed. The short, surprised kind of laugh that came from a dropped spoon or an unexpectedly recalled joke. Pots clinked softly in the kitchen. A cupboard closed with a wooden thump. The boiler ticked gently in the background. A phone buzzed faintly somewhere, followed by footsteps crossing the dining room floor.

The sounds blended into a portrait of morning activity: people making brunch, moving around, easing into their day. Familiar domestic noise. Comforting, even.

Then…

A creak.

Soft, slow, deliberate.

It came from directly beneath him.

Elliot froze, eyes open, staring up at the slanted ceiling. He held his breath.
A second creak followed, slightly heavier, like someone shifting their weight on an old board.

He waited for a third. A fourth. Something, anything, that would turn the sound into footsteps.

Nothing came.

Silence swallowed the landing below.
The house returned to its gentle morning hum as though nothing had happened.

“Old building,” he whispered to himself, trying to attach a shrug to the words. “Probably just David going downstairs. Or the boiler. Or… something normal.”

But as he rolled onto his side and let his gaze drift toward the floorboards, his thoughts followed the invisible line down through the wood, past the first-floor ceiling, onto the landing below.

To the door painted black.
To Room 2.

To the silent space he still wasn’t convinced was truly occupied.