Chapter 3

Elliot had only been in his room for 10 minutes when he smelled food. Warm garlic, butter sizzling. Something bright. Lemon? Rosemary? Whatever it was, it drifted up the staircase and curled under his door with enough insistence to pull him out of bed.

He slipped on a hoodie and made his way downstairs.

The kitchen was already alive.

Jordan, still in his pyjama bottoms but wearing an apron covered in aggressive cartoon vegetables, stood at the stove like he was conducting an orchestra. Two pans hissed under his control. Onions softening in one, the other bubbling with a cream sauce flecked generously with herbs.

“Ah! The Newcomer!” he called without turning. “Approach. Witness art.”

Harper, at the counter beside him, sliced carrots with steady precision. Her pace suggested she was helping more in theory than in practice, but her expression was peaceful, as if chopping carrots at half-speed was a grounding ritual.

She looked up and smile. “Morning, Elliot.”

“Morning,’ he returned. “Wow, it smells amazing.”

“Jordan flicked his spoon in a flourish. “It smells like dedication and genius.”

“It smells like butter,” Harper corrected gently.

“Same thing.”

Elliot wandered in and grabbed the spare knife. Jordan nodded at the peppers.

“You chop; I perform miracles.”

Elliot stepped further into the kitchen, reaching for the cupboard on the wall to grab a chopping board. The cupboard door nearly fell off its hinge, swinging downward with a sudden jolt. Elliot jerked back.

Jordan swore, jolting away from the counter. “Bloody hell, forgot about that! I told you this morning about the door that eats fingers!”

Harper blinked at the door. “How is that still broken?”

“Because I’m a chef, not a carpenter.” Jordan replied.

Elliot eased the door shut with one hand. It didn’t sit flush; the hinge hung by a single screw.

Elliot fell into a rhythm, slow but steady, while Jordan narrated every step of his cooking aloud in dramatic flourishes. Harper occasionally murmured correction like a calm backstage director.

“Harper’s slicing is driving me into an early grave.” Jordan announced.

“This is meditative,” Harper insisted.

“This is sabotage.” Jordan retorted.

Elliot smiled, feeling unexpectedly at home.

The moment was interrupted by heavy, uneven footsteps on the stairs.

Sam appeared in the doorway, looking like a barely functional human in an inside-out hoodie and mismatched socks. Her hair was a riot of curls escaping whatever attempt she had made to tame them.

“Food?” she croaked.

Jordan gestured at the stove with a grand flourish. “In progress.”

Sam shuffled over to the toaster, loaded it with bread, and leaned on the counter with the thousand-yard stare of the deeply sleep-deprived.

A faint whisp of smoke rose.

Elliot noticed first. “Sam…?”

She didn’t move.

Jordan sniffed. Turned. Froze. “Sam, no- “
The toaster ignited in a tiny but dramatic poof of flame.

Sam screamed.

Harper jumped back, nearly dropping her half-sliced carrot.

Jordan slammed a damp cloth over the toaster with practiced speed.

Silence.

Jordan lifted the cloth with the delicacy of a surgeon.

“My toaster…” he whispered. “My beautiful toaster.”

Sam’s face went redder than the tomatoes on Jordan’s apron. “I am so sorry. I swear I didn’t even see it… I thought it was the kettle… I…”

Elliot let out an involuntary laugh. He tried to smother it, but it came out anyway.

Sam shot him a wounded glare. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” Elliot said, biting back another laugh. “I Promise. I’m just… Impressed by the level of destruction.”

Harper stepped in empathetically. “It happens. Last month Jordan broke the blender.”

“Hey,’ Jordan said, pointing his spoon accusingly. “The blender was weak.”

“It was new.”

“It was still weak.”

Sam mumbled an apology to the toaster, which made Jordan dramatically clutch at his heart.

Despite the chaos, there was something warm about the moment. The kind of accidental disaster that instantly bonded people.

Lunch turned out incredible. Jordan’s cooking was not just theatrical but genuinely excellent. They all gathered around the cramped table, passing bowls and sharing food. 

Halfway through, David descended the stairs. Freshly showered, quiet, composed.

He paused when he saw the broken cupboard door, his brow dipping slightly in silent observation.

“Morning,” he said.

“David!” Jordan wiggled a spoon at him. “Food! Join! Eat!”

David held up a foil-wrapped sandwich. “Already made lunch. Thanks though.”

He made himself a cup of tea, standing out of the way. When Harper asked about his shift, he gave a polite but warm answer. Sam waved at him; he nodded back. His presence was brief but gentle, like a small breeze of calm in a noisy room.

Then he went back upstairs and Jordan muttered, “He’s going to fix that door later. Watch.”

Elliot returned to the kitchen in the afternoon to grab a drink. The sun filtered through the window, catching on the dust in the air.

David was there.

Not just there, kneeling with a toolbox, hinge removed, cupboard door balanced on one knee. His movements were quiet, precise, efficient.

Sam sat cross-legged beside him on the floor, “helping.”

“Phillips screwdriver,” David said.

Sam handed him a flathead.

“Other one,” David murmured gently. 

“Oh! Right.” She swapped them sheepishly.

There was no irritation in David’s tone. No sighing or eye-rolling. Just a steady patience that seemed to be an intrinsic part of him.

Elliot leaned against the doorframe. “Need another helper?”

Sam perked up. “Please. I keep giving him the wrong tools and he won’t even tell me off.”

David checked the hinge’s alignment. “You’re doing fine.”

“No, she isn’t,” Jordan called from the dining room, though he didn’t look up from editing photos.

Sam tossed a cloth at him. Jordan ducked.

Elliot stepped closer, offering David a screw that had rolled near his foot, his hand brushing lightly against Sam’s as she also handed one to him. Sam’s eyes flickered to Elliot’s hand for a fraction of a second.

She smirked. “Look at you, being useful.”

Elliot shrugged. “Trying to impress someone.”

Sam froze for just a moment, barely noticeable, before smiling in a way that warmed her entire expression.

“Oh?” she said lightly. “Should I be flattered?”

“Depends,” Elliot said. “Is it working?”

Sam’s cheeked pinked slightly. “Maybe.”

David, still crouched, quietly tightened the final screw as though he heard nothing, or as though he was politely pretending not to hear everything.

“There,” he said, standing. “That should hold.”

Sam clapped. “You’re magic.”

David shook his head. “Just practical.” And with that understated grace, he packed his tools and slipped out.

Sam watched him go. “he’s like a handyman ghost.”

Elliot laughed. “Polite, helpful, silent.”

“And slightly haunted,” Sam added.

They exchanged another small smile, the kind that hinted at something beginning.

Later, with the kitchen quiet again, Elliot headed back to his room. The house creaked, the familiar song of wood adjusting under foot.

Until he reached the second floor.

The board above the first-floor landing, the one directly above Room 2, yielded no sound at all.

He shifted his weight.

Still nothing.

No creak. No groan. No settling sound. Just cold, flat silence.

Elliot paused, looking down the stairs towards the black-painted door. For a moment the landing felt… hollow.

Then a distant laugh floated up from Jordan downstairs, breaking the tension. Elliot exhaled and forced himself up the final steps, telling himself every old house had weird quirks.

But as he closed his bedroom door, the faint, uncanny stillness of that silent floorboard lingered in his thoughts longer than he liked.

Sunday morning. Elliot woke slowly, blinking against the pale grey morning light slipping into his room through the high, narrow window on the far wall. Because the window sat almost at ceiling height, the light always entered the room softly, without strong direction; just a diffuse glow that gently brightened the off-white walls. It made it hard to tell the exact time without checking a clock, and for a moment, Elliot lay there guessing: late morning maybe?

The house had that quiet, slightly heavy air of a lazy day.

He sat up, stretching. The room felt cooler today, a soft chill slinging to the floorboards beneath his feet, he stood and reached for his hoodie, pulling it on before opening his door and listening for movement.

The house murmured faintly. A kettle clicking off. Someone walking from kitchen to dining room. Water running briefly and shutting off. No raised voices, no clattering pans, no chaos like yesterday. It felt almost peaceful.

Elliot descended the stairs.

The kitchen greeted him with warm, toasted air and the faint smell of butter melting into breadcrumbs. Harper sat at the table in soft grey joggers and a loose jumper, hair tied back carelessly, a thick, tab-marked novel open in front of her. She looked up at him with the gentle smile of someone who did mornings quietly.

“Morning,” she said softly, as though raising her voice might break something fragile in the moment.

“Morning.” Elliot smiled back and put the t=kettle on for tea.

Jordan was stationed at the dining table just outside the kitchen, his laptop open, earphones draped around his neck. His hair was a mess, the clear result of either a poor night’s sleep or a stubborn bedhead situation he’d refused to fight. He was editing photos, clicking back and forth between frames, muttering the occasional “nope,” or “that’s better,” under his breath.

Without looking up, he lifted his spoon in greeting. “Morning, dude.”

Elliot poured hot water over the teabag and leaned against the counter. “Productive already?”

“I am always productive,” Jordan countered, then yawned mid-sentence. “Except when I’m not. Which is often. But today…? Today I am a man of focus.”

Harper turned a page. “he’s been at this since five.”

“Five?” Elliot asked.

Harper nodded. “Couldn’t sleep. So, he sat here grumbling at light levels for three hours.”

“That’s dedication.”

“It’s self-punishment,” Harper corrected.

Jordan pointed a stern finger in her direction. “I’ll have you know this is artistry. My craft. My calling.”

“You’re correcting exposure on a picture of a potted plant,” Harper said, without looking up.

“It’s an artsy potted plant.”

Elliot laughed quietly into his tea.

After a few minutes, he joined them at the dining table, nursing the warm mug between his palms. The morning rolled on in slow, comfortable waves. Harper occasionally read aloud an interesting sentence from her book; Jordan occasionally swore at the colour balance on his screen; Elliot chimed in here and there with a small conversation.

At one point Jordan looked over his laptop. “What’s on your list today?”

“Rearranging my room,” Elliot said. “My desk is coming Tuesday, so I want to make some space for it.”

“Desk prep,” Jordan said approvingly. “A noble Sunday task. Better than mine.”

“What’s yours?”

Jordan gestured weakly at the laptop. “Arguing with pixels.”

Harper closed her book briefly. “Later we’re all doing a film night. Jordan’s insisting.”

Jordan raised a hand solemnly. “As house tradition dictates.”

“Since when is that a tradition?” Elliot asked.

“Since right now,” Jordan replied.

Harper rolled her eyes affectionately.

As Elliot sipped his tea and listened to their soft bickering, he realised something: This house, for all its quirks and chaos, felt more welcoming than anywhere he’s lived in years.

Then, just as he got up to return upstairs, a faint creak drifted from the floor above.

Not unusual. Houses creak.

But it came from the first-floor landing… near Room 2.

Elliot paused with one hand on the banister.

Harper tilted her head slightly. “Floorboard.”

“Probably” Elliot said, though the noise had been oddly measured. Almost like a step, but too quiet to be one.

Jordan waved a dismissing hand. “The house does weird sounds all the time. You’ll get used to it.”

Maybe he would. Maybe it meant nothing.

Elliot climbed the stairs with the warm weight of tea in his hands, feeling that pleasant looseness that only quiet Sundays ever seem to hold. Room 5 greeted him with its usual understated light, a thin, muted rectangle filtering in through the high-set window. It cast a pale wash across the far wall, illuminating a faint texture in the paint he hadn’t noticed before, subtle brush strokes catching the midday light.

He set his mug down on the chest of drawers, the ceramic clinking gently on the wood, and took in the room with a thoughtful frown.

It wasn’t a big space, but it had promise. A single bed, a tall wardrobe, a narrow chest of drawers, mismatched but study furniture.

The slanted ceiling on one side gave the room a quiet, tucked-away feeling, like a hideout in an attic even though it wasn’t one.

His new desk was set to arrive Tuesday. That meant today was reshuffling day.

He pushed the bed first, lifting one side, dragging the other, steadying the frame with his knee so it didn’t wobble. The wood complained, groaning softly across the floorboards, but it moved. Dust puffed out from beneath it, and he grimaced, making a mental note to clean properly.

Next came the chest of drawers. Easier. He slid it beneath the lower section of wall, where the ceiling dipped just slightly, making the space cosy rather than cramped.

The room already looked more functional.

Only the wardrobe left.

Elliot approached it with the caution of someone about to lift a sleeping animal. The wardrobe was tall, plain, and old in that wat that gave it weight beyond physics, the hinges a little rusted, the pinewood slightly warped at the corners.

He gripped one side, braced his foot, and gently tugged.

It resisted at first then shifted, albeit reluctantly.

He manoeuvred it forward another inch, trying to angle it carefully toward the opposite wall. The wardrobe groaned in protest, an old, weary sound.

“Come on…” he muttered.

He gave one more decisive pull.

The left door tore free with a shuddering CRACK that ricocheted around the room.

The door plummeted like a felled tree and slammed onto the floorboards with a deep, resonant THUD that made the windowpane shiver in its frame.

Elliot froze.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The fallen door looked enormous now that it was off its hinges. Wider, heavier, dominating the narrow strip of floor between the bed and the wall. Splintered wood flaked from the sheared hinge, catching the light in tiny, ragged glints. He knelt and examined it with a resigned sigh. The top hinge had snapped clean in half; the bottom one hung limply from the wardrobe like it has given up years ago.

There was no way this was going back on without industrial-grade tools.

He pushed hair out of his eyes, staring at the absurdly large slab of wood now occupying most of his floor.

“Fine,” he said under his breath. “Be like that.”

An idea forming, he got two side tables, one old, one that wobbled even when empty, and positioned them carefully. With much grunting and the kind of caution usually reserved for bomb disposal, he lifted the wardrobe door and balanced it across the table horizontally.

The result was…

Chaos.

Functional chaos.

The door wasn’t even straight, one side slightly higher than the other, the slope making it look like a warped drawbridge. The handle stuck upward at a ridiculous angle like a mocking nose.

He placed his laptop on it. It slid three inches before he caught it, second before it would have tumbled to the floor.

“Perfect.” He muttered. “Absolutely professional.”

He was mid-adjustment, trying to wedge a sock under one table leg for stability, when he heard soft footsteps on the landing. The familiar shuffle of someone who hadn’t fully committed to being awake yet.

Sam.

She appeared in the doorway with her mug of tea, cupped in both hands like a fragile relic. Her hair was a halo of chaotic curls, some sticking out sideways, some fighting gravity entirely. She wore plaid pyjama bottoms and an oversized hoodie that swallowed half her arm.

She blinked at him.

Then at the wardrobe.

Then at the makeshift desk.

“…What the hell happened in here?”

“Elliot straightened slowly. “There was… an incident.”

Sam stepped inside cautiously, as if she expected further collapses.

“You murdered your wardrobe,” she announced, walking around the fallen door with the serious appraisal of a forensic specialist. “This is a crime scene.”

“It attacked me first,” Elliot said.

“I bet it did.”

Sam set her mug down on the bedside table and crouched to inspect the wardrobe door more closely. She tapped the snapped hinge with one finger, winced sympathetically, then turned her gaze upward with a wicked smile.

“And… this?” she asked, gesturing dramatically at the wardrobe-door-bridge he’d constructed. “Is this… art?”

“It’s temporary,” Elliot said defensively.

“It’s a cry for help.”

Elliot rubbed his face. “Desk arrives Tuesday.”

Sam walked around the ‘desk’ slowly, as though it were a sculpture displayed in a gallery she was being paid to critique.

“It’s bold,” she said finally.

He groaned. “Oh god…”

Sam stood beside him, shoulder almost touching his, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“…It’s kind of adorable, though.”

Elliot paused. “…Adorable?”

“Yes. In a helpless, tragic, hopelessly unhandy kind of way.”

He scoffed. “Wow. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said sweetly.

Their eyes lingered just a moment too long. Enough for something warm and unspoken to settle between them.

Then…

Tap… tap… tap…

A faint sound drifted up from beneath the floorboards.

Not loud. Not random, a deliberate irregular tapping.

Sam froze, eyes flicking downward.

“…That came from below,” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Directly below.”

“Yeah.”

She swallowed. “Room 2 is below.”

Elliot’s stomach tightened. “Yeah.”

Silence.

Sam exhaled sharply, shaking off the tension like a dog shaking off water. “Old house,” she declared, louder than necessary. “Old, cranky house.”

But her eyes didn’t fully relax.

She nudged him lightly on her way out, recovering her usual tone. “Don’t break anything else while I’m gone. Or do. I kind of want to see what you improvise next.”

She smiled, bright, teasing, a little shy, before stepping back onto the landing.

Elliot watched her go, heart beating with a warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

When he glanced back at the makeshift desk, it no longer seemed ridiculous.

It seemed like something that had made Sam laugh.

When he finished reorganising his room after building the world’s most questionable makeshift desk, Elliot headed downstairs for somewhere calmer to work/ The Silent Lounge was what he needed, a warm, softly lit little haven tucked at the end of the second-floor hallway.

The room had a gentle, lived-in feel: a slightly faded rug covered most of the floor, a floor lamp cast a golden glow over the coffee table, and a half-finished puzzle lay abandoned in front of the sofa. The air smelled faintly of vanilla-scented candles and the pages of old books.

Harper was curled neatly in the armchair, knees tucked up, reading intently. She glanced up at Elliot’s arrival and gave him a quiet smile.

“Hey,” she whispered, as if any louder might break the peace.

“Hey. Mind if I work here?”

“Go ahead. It’s what the room’s for.”

Elliot set up at the small desk in the corner, facing the street-facing window. Afternoon light filtered through soft curtains and pooled gently around the room, giving it a still, cosy glow. He opened his laptop and began sketching out interface layouts, tapping quietly.

The atmosphere almost lulled him into forgetting about the house’s oddities.

Footsteps padded softly down the hallway.

Sam appeared, hair in a messy bun, jumper oversized, leggings comfortable, carrying her laptop and a stack of printed notes that looked like they were actively trying to escape her hands. A pencil stuck haphazardly into her hair like it had been thrown there from a distance.

“Oh, thank god,” she whispered upon seeing them. “I was going insane trying to write alone.”

Harper lifted a hand in lazy greeting.

Elliot waved her over. “Sit here.”

She did, right beside him, close enough that their knees brushed lightly. She dropped her notes onto the desk, opened her laptop, and stared at the blank document like it personally offended her.

“I hate essays,” she muttered.

“That’s still true,” Elliot said.

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Don’t mock my suffering.”

Harper hid a small smile behind her book.

They worked quietly together, sharing soft commentary. Sam leaned in whenever she asked a question, her voice low, her perfume faint and sweet. Every time her elbow brushed his, she didn’t move it. Every time their legs touched under the desk, she let the contact linger.

It felt warm. Comfortable. A little thrilling.

They fell back into their work, until a faint sound drifted down the hallway.

Not a creak, not a footstep. A small metallic rattle, brief but clear.

Sam’s head snapped up. “What was that?”

Elliot paused mid-keystroke. “Something fell?”

Harper lowered her book slowly, listening.

Silence. The kind that made the hair on his arms prickle.

“Stay here,” Elliot whispered, standing before he realised, he’d said it.

Same rose immediately. “No way you’re going alone.”

Harper closed her book but stayed seated. “Call if you need anything.”

The hallway outside the Silent Lounge was still, lit in a soft strip of afternoon light from the window opposite the stairs. Everything looked normal.

Except… a pen lay on the floor directly in front of Room 2. Not a plastic biro. Not anything modern. This pen was old. Tarnished brass scuffed along one side. Delicate engravings worn down by decades of use.

It looked like something from a writing desk in a Victorian study, far too old and too elegant to belong to any of the housemates.

Elliot crouched and lifted it carefully. The brass was cold. Far colder than the hallway air.

Sam hugged her arms, peering over his shoulder. “Does… anyone in this house own something like that?”

Elliot shook his head slowly. “Jordan? Maybe? He’s artsy enough to have weird vintage stuff.”

Sam didn’t look convinced.

They walked back to the Silent Lounge with the pen held gingerly between Elliot’s fingers, as though it might shatter. Harper looked up from her chair, brows knitting.

“What’s that?”

“We found it outside Room 2,” Sam said. “Do you recognise it?”

Harper leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the tarnished brass. “I’ve never seen that in my life.” She touched her chest instinctively, as if warding off an uneasy feeling. “It looks… antique.”

Elliot placed it gently on the coffee table. “Maybe it’s Jordan’s?”

Sam nodded. “We should ask.”

They headed downstairs, finding Jordan still at the dining room table editing photos, headphones around his neck. He glanced up as they approached him.

“Sup?”

Elliot held up the pen. “Is this yours?”

Jordan squinted, leaned closer, then shook his head. “Nope. I don’t use fancy pens. I use cheap ones and lose them immediately. That thing looks older than my soul.”

Sam took it from Elliot and set it on the table. “We found it outside Room 2.”

Jordan blinked once, “Well that’s… atmospheric.”

“So, it’s not yours?” Elliot pressed.

“Mate, if I owned something that classy, I’d be bragging about it constantly.”

They traded uneasy looks.

Sam frowned. “What about David?”

Jordan snorted. “David doesn’t own anything that isn’t practical. Trust me, the man’s a walking utility belt.

Still, they went to look.

David was in the kitchen preparing a little midday meal, chopping vegetables with the efficiency of someone who didn’t waste motion. He looked up politely as they entered.

“Everything okay?”

Elliot showed him the pen. “Is this yours? We found it upstairs.”

David paused to study the pen then gave a quiet, steady shake of the head. “Nope. Never seen it before.”

Sam exchanged a look with Elliot.

“Does it look familiar at all?” she urged.

David considered it for a moment. “Looks very old. Not something any of us use.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Where exactly did you find it?”

Sam hesitated. “Outside Room 2.”

A flicker, tiny, almost nothing, passed across David’s face. Then his expression reset into that calm neutrality he wore like a uniform.

“I see,” was all he said.

Elliot waited for him to ask more. He didn’t.

Jordan wondered into the doorway behind them, arms folded. “So… no one here owns it?”

All three of them shook their heads. A thin silence pooled between them.

Sam swallowed. “So, who dropped it…?”

Nobody had an answer.

The five of them stood in the kitchen for a moment, the old brass pen lying cold in Elliot’s palm, its weight somehow heavier now that everyone had denied owning it. The warm kitchen light didn’t soften the unease that clung to the object.

Harper finally spoke, her voice gentle but steady. “Let’s… take it back upstairs. The Silent Lounge has better light. Maybe It’ll make more sense up there.”

Jordan nodded. “Yeah. And I don’t love it being this close to the pastries.”

David gave a quiet, unreadable look but didn’t argue.

So, the five of them climbed the stairs together, not in a single file, but in a loose cluster, as though none of them wanted to be the one closest to Room 2 or the one furthest from the group.

The hallway felt cooler than before, a soft draft trailing along the floorboards. Elliot noticed Sam stay just half a step closer to him as they passed the black-painted door of Room 2.

 In the Silent Lounge, with its soft lamplight and calming warmth, the atmosphere eased slightly. 

Elliot set the pen on the coffee table. The brass gleaned faintly, shadowed but he old engravings that wound around its barrel. Harper studied it from a respectful distance. Jordan leaned over it with theatrical suspicion. Sam crossed her arms, biting her lower lip.

“Still doesn’t look like it belongs to anyone I know,” Jordan murmured.

“Or anyone alive in this century,” Sam added.

David hovered in the doorway, saying nothing though his eyes lingered on the pen a second longer than the others’.

Nobody had an answer. Nobody even had a suggestion.

Jordan clapped his hands suddenly, breaking the tension and making Sam jump.

‘Right. We’re spiralling. Group distraction time. Everyone downstairs, I’m cooking.”

“You cooked yesterday,” Elliot said without thinking.

“This isn’t cooking,” Jordan replied, already heading for the stairs. “This is emotional triage.”

Harper smirked. “So, jacket potatoes.”

“Respect the potatoes!” Jordan shouted from the landing.

Sam let out a relieved, nervous little laugh and nudged Elliot’s arm. “Come on, before he starts monologuing again.”

Elliot glanced once more at the pen sitting on the table, cold, antique, and belonging to no one, before leaving the Silent Lounge behind and following the others downstairs.

Downstairs, the house quickly slipped back into its warm, familiar rhythm. Jordan moved around the kitchen with the swagger of a chef in a small, chaotic kingdom, slamming cupboard doors, humming loudly, and lecturing his potatoes as if they were unruly children.

Within the hour, the five of them were sat around the dining table eating jacket potatoes loaded with cheese, butter, and whatever toppings Jordan found acceptable. The food was simple, comforting, and (in Jordan’s dramatic words) “exactly the antidote to unexplained Victorian stationary.”

Sam had laughed so hard she nearly dropped her fork. Even Harper smiled into her food.

By the time they cleared their plates, the tension around the strange brass pen has dulled, not gone, but softened under the weight of warm food, friendly chatter, and the shared decision to pretend it was all just an oddly placed antique someone had forgotten.

Which was exactly why Jordan stood up, clapped his hands together and declared “Movie night. Mandatory attendance. Nobody escapes.”

They gathered in the lounge not long after polishing off Jordan’s “emotionally restorative” jacket potatoes. The room felt like the heart of the house, warm lamplight pooling over the cushions, blankets draped across the sofas, a faint scent of popcorn already drifting from the kitchen.

Harper arranged the seating with quiet authority, folding blankets just so and ensuring each cushion had the correct amount of fluff. Jordan, meanwhile, was untangling HDMI cables in the way a cat might try to solve string theory.

Sam claimed her usual spot, a corner of the sofa with the softest blanket and the warmest lamp glow. She curled one leg underneath her and tugged another blanket over her lap.

She looked up and smiles at Elliot.

“Here,” she said, patting the space beside her. “This spot’s the warmest.”

Elliot tried to play it cool, failed, and sat beside her, aware of his own heartbeat in a way he never was around anyone else.

Jordan finally managed to plug in his laptop and stood there like a victorious inventor. “All right!” he declared. “Mandatory attendance, no excuses, nobody esc…”

“I’ll be ducking out early,” David said calmly, stepping into the doorway with a mug of peppermint tea. He wore a soft navy jumper and looked freshly showered, hair still slightly damp. His posture was near, composed. Very him.

Jordan signed theatrically. “Every time, mate.”

David offered a small, apologetic smile. “Early shift.”

“That’s always your excuse,” Sam teased lightly.

He Shrugged, unbothered. “Because it’s always true.”

Harper smiles. “Stay as long as you can.”

David nodded, settling onto the far end of Jordan’s sofa. Far enough from everyone to avoid crowding, but close enough to be part of the group.

Jordan dimmed the lights. “Right. Everybody emotionally brace yourselves for the greatest comfort film ever made.”

Harper lifted an eyebrow. “It’s a silly comedy.”

“a transcendent comedy,” Jordan corrected.

Sam leaned in towards Elliot and whispered, “He says that about every movie he chooses.”

Elliot smiled. “I’m sensing a pattern.”

Jordan shot them a glare and hit play.

For the first twenty minutes, David actually seemed relaxed. He sat quietly at the edge of the sofa, sipping tea, letting his shoulders slowly unwind. Every now and then a joke in the film coaxed a tiny smile out of him, a quick upwards twitch gone almost as soon as it appeared.

But true to his word, around the thirty-minute mark, he checked his phone with a slight frown. He waited for a natural emotional lull, never interrupting a scene, before standing.

“Right,” he said softly. “I’m heading up.”

Sam looked over. “Already?”

“Shift starts at five,” he said with a small shrug. “If I don’t sleep, I won’t have a soul tomorrow.”

Jordan pointed at him dramatically. “Your loss, the next scene is an artistic masterpiece.”

David’s smile warmed a fraction. “Enjoy it. Goodnight.”

“Night,” Harper said.

“Night,” echoes Elliot.

David nodded once to the room, then slipped out. His footsteps faded up the stairs, the house creaking beneath him in that familiar way old houses do.

When he was gone, the room subtly changed. Quieter, softer… and more intimate.

Jordan sensed it and grinned across the darkened room like a man who lived to meddle.

“Right!” he announced. “Now that Responsible Dad has gone to bed, let’s enjoy the stupid bits.”

“Jordan,” Harper warned.

“What? He hates the stupid bits!”

Elliot chuckled. Sam bumped his knee gently, her smile warm and effortless.

The film continued, filling the room with soft laughter and warm light from the screen. Sam gradually shifted closer to Elliot, first a subtle shuffle, then resting her shoulder against his arm. Her hair brushed his sleeve in feather-light movements when she laughed.

Elliot tried to focus on the film.

He failed, absolutely.

Her presence was warm, comforting, and very, very distracting.

About three quarters of the through the movie, Sam tucked her head against his shoulder fully. Her breath warmed his shirt. He felt every rise and fall of her breathing, slow and steady.

Jordan looked over and saw it. He grinned like he’d been handed the plot twist he’d been waiting for.

He leaner close to Harper and whispered far too loudly, “Called it.”

Harper sighed. “Please stop narrating real life.”

Sam didn’t stir. 

This only made Jordan’s grin widen.

Elliot, meanwhile, sat as still as a statue. His heart pounded against his ribs. He tried not to breathe too sharply or move even a millimetre. It was the tensest he’d ever been during a comedy film.

Minutes passed. Then tens of minutes.

By the time the credits rolled, Sam was completely asleep, head still resting on Elliot’s shoulder, fingers curled loosely against his arm beneath the blanket.

Sam blinked awake slowly as lights brightened. She lifted her head, dazed, her hair mussed adorably to one side.

“Did I… fall asleep?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Elliot said softly.

“On you?”

“Yeah.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “I… Sorry. I didn’t mean to… th-this blanket was warm and I- “

“It’s really okay,” Elliot said quickly. “You didn’t bother me.”

Sam gave him a warm, sleepy smile. Soft at the edges, genuine.

Jordan sprawled across the sofa like a smug cat. “Honestly, that was the cutest thing I’ve seen in weeks.”

Elliot threw a cushion at him. Jordan batted it away like it was part of the performance.

Harper laughed behind her hand.

They Lingered for a while, chatting lazily, nibbling on leftover popcorn. Sam stayed close to Elliot the whole time, occasionally brushing his arm or shoulder when she talked. And for a while, it felt like nothing in the house was out of place.

The group drifted upstairs one by one, murmuring quiet goodnights across the landing.

Elliot was the last to climb the stairs. The hallway was dim, a single wall lamp casting an amber bean along the floorboards. The air felt cooler here, heavy with late-night stillness.

He walked past the Silent Lounge, past the landing window, toward the first-floor staircase.

Then he stopped.

The pen was there. Exactly where they had first found it. Directly outside Room 2. Placed with unnerving precision.

Elliot felt his breath catch.

They had left it in the Silent Lounge on the coffee table. He remembered setting it down. He remembered the others seeing it.

Yet here it was. 

Again.

He didn’t touch it. Didn’t go close. He stepped around it with a strange, cold awareness creeping up his spine.

Something about Room 2, something behind that unmoving, black-painted door, felt awake. Alive. Watching.

He closed his bedroom door quietly behind him and leaned against it, heartbeat loud in the stillness.

Tomorrow, he told himself. He’d think about all this tomorrow.

But tomorrow had a way of coming whether he wanted it to or not.