The taxi turned off the congested Victoria Embankment onto a relatively deserted road leading deeper into the **Isle of Dogs**. Outside the window flashed the silhouettes of converted docks – brick giants of the past reborn as lofts and expensive galleries, and the sharp glass wedges of the newest towers piercing the low November sky. The fog here, over the Thames, was thicker, saltier, saturated with the smell of old water and metal. Simon looked out the window, his fingers nervously tracing the edge of the battered notebook in his coat pocket. The waiting was worse than the doing. Much worse.
*Rational explanation.* Olsen's words echoed in his head like a mockery. Technical failure. Laser pointers. *Anything.* But in his jacket pocket, beneath his coat, lay that small bag. The chill of the shimmering fabric was palpable through the layers of clothing, like an icy pinpoint on his heart. His palms were sweaty. He took his hands out of his pockets, wiped them on his trouser legs, and stuffed them back in. A lump formed in his throat. Not fear of the unknown, but that familiar, oppressive *premonition*. The feeling that he was once again standing on the threshold of *that* office, a second before the world fractured.
The taxi slowed at the foot of a monolith of glass and steel – **Tenebris Wharf**. The tower loomed over the area, its upper floors dissolving into the foggy haze as if ascending into another dimension. The glass facade reflected the dim lights of the embankment and neighboring buildings, creating an illusion of movement and life, but the building itself felt cold and unwelcoming. Simon paid, stepped out onto the sidewalk. A sharp, damp cold hit his face. He checked his watch: 8:10 PM. Ten minutes late due to traffic.
Under the canopy, pacing nervously by the wide automatic doors of tinted glass, was a man in a dark suit and coat. Arthur Olsen. Even from a distance, his state was obvious. His face was drawn, dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn't slept for several nights. Hair, neatly styled during the day, now fell haphazardly across his forehead. He spotted Simon, and his face contorted not so much with relief as with irritation.
"Mr. Vale!" Olsen stepped forward, not offering his hand. His voice was sharp, strained. "You're late. I was beginning to worry. The situation… the situation isn't getting any better." He glanced at the large clock above the entrance. "It could start any minute."
"Traffic on the embankment, Mr. Olsen," Simon tried to sound calm, professional, though inside everything was knotted tight. "My apologies. Show me the apartment."
Olsen nodded, turned sharply, and led Simon through the automatic doors. The lobby of Tenebris Wharf struck him with its sterile opulence: a vast space paved in black and white marble, columns styled like steel dock supports, an expensive abstract installation on the wall. The air smelled of expensive air freshener and… anxiety. At the concierge desk, a young man in impeccable uniform stood duty, his face stony but his eyes darting nervously. Several residents waiting for the lift were whispering, casting wary glances at Olsen and Simon.
"Lift to the north wing," Olsen tossed over his shoulder, almost jogging towards the far bank of elevators. He tapped an electronic key card against the reader; the door slid open silently. Inside, it was spacious, mirrored, cold. Olsen pressed the button for '10'. The lift glided smoothly upwards.
"While we're going up, Mr. Vale," Olsen spoke without looking at Simon, staring fixedly at the gleaming door. "I thought… perhaps you should speak to the neighbors? Especially apartments 26 and 28. They complained the most. Mrs. Everard in 26 – she's… an impressionable lady. Mr. Hargreave in 28 – he's more… irritated."
Simon nodded, grateful for the chance to collect his thoughts before entering the beast's lair. "Good idea. Let's start with them, before the… performance begins."
The lift stopped. The doors parted, revealing a long, wide, impeccably clean corridor with soft carpeting. The lighting was subdued, cozy. But the atmosphere was oppressive. Silence hung like a heavy blanket. Olsen led Simon to the right.
"Here's apartment 26," he indicated a dark wood door with a brass number. He knocked – cautiously, almost timidly.
The door opened almost immediately. Behind it stood a woman in her sixties, in a smart house dress and pearl necklace – Mrs. Everard. Her face was pale, eyes wide open with an expression of chronic fright.
"Mr. Olsen!" her voice trembled. "Is it… is it happening tonight? I heard… I thought I heard rustling already!"
"Calm down, Mrs. Everard," Olsen attempted a smile, but it came out pitiful. "This is Mr. Vale, a private investigator. He's here to help sort this out. He'd like to ask you a few questions about… about what you've heard and seen."
Mrs. Everard stared at Simon with a mixture of hope and fear. She spoke quickly, breathlessly, gesturing: rustling sounds that seemed like someone dragging something heavy across the floor; the light switching on and off "with such an ominous click"; an icy draft from under the door of apartment 27 that "went right to the bone"; the feeling that "someone is watching from behind that door when the corridor is empty." Her account was emotional, overflowing with details that could be either truth or the product of a frightened imagination. Simon patiently took notes, asking clarifying questions, trying to extract facts. He felt Mrs. Everard's nervousness transferring to him, intensifying that very chill in his chest.
"Thank you, Mrs. Everard, you've been very helpful," he finally said, seeing her begin to gasp with agitation. "Try not to worry."
She nodded, still trembling, and slammed the door, the lock clicking shut.
"Now Mr. Hargreave, 28," Olsen sighed, pointing to the door opposite apartment 27. Apartment 27 looked utterly ordinary, save for the electronic lock with a blinking red 'Locked' indicator.
Olsen knocked on door 28 more firmly. They waited longer. Finally, the door swung open. On the threshold stood a man in his mid-forties, tall, solidly built, wearing an expensive sweatshirt and trousers. His face was flushed with anger, not fear.
"Olsen!" he barked, ignoring Simon. "Again?! I told you, stop terrorizing the residents!"
"Mr. Hargreave, sorry to bother you," Olsen began, taking a step back. "This is Mr. Vale, a private investigator. He's looking into the situation with apartment 27. He'd like to…"
"Looking into it?" Hargreave snorted, his gaze sliding contemptuously over Simon from head to toe, lingering on his unfashionable coat. "What's there to look into? Send your technicians out again! Or the police! Not some…" – he was clearly searching for a word, – "…*private eyes* who'll be poking around in our nerves!"
"Mr. Hargreave, I understand your irritation," Simon tried to interject, keeping his tone calm. "I just want to hear your account of events. What exactly you…"
"*My* account?" Hargreave cut him off, stepping forward. He was taller than Simon and used it, looming over him. "My account is that this building has appalling security if it allows such *ghosts* to scare people! Or it's someone's idiotic prank! And you…" – he jabbed a finger into Simon's chest, – "…you're only here so Olsen can cover his ass and show the owner he's 'doing something'! You're a charlatan profiting off other people's fears!"
Simon felt blood rush to his face with anger and humiliation. The word "charlatan" struck the rawest nerve, his discredited past. He clenched his fists inside his coat pockets.
"Mr. Hargreave, I'm just trying to…"
"Get lost!" Hargreave hissed, his face twisted with rage. He took another step forward, forcing Simon back. "Piss off with your stupid questions! And don't you dare knock on my door again! Or I'll call the *real* police! Got it, charlatan?"
He slammed the door with such force that the glass panel in it vibrated. The echo of the bang rolled down the corridor.
Simon stood, stunned by the outburst of hatred. His heart was pounding wildly. Olsen looked flustered and even more miserable.
"I… I warned you he was irritated," the manager mumbled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Vale. He… he filed a complaint with the owners' association. Against me."
Simon took a deep breath, exhaled, trying to quell the tremor in his hands and the fury boiling inside. *Charlatan.* That label had haunted him since Edinburgh. He nodded to Olsen, his voice raspy but controlled:
"It's fine. Let's get to it. Apartment 27. Show me."
Olsen nodded with relief, pulled out an electronic key card – plastic, with the Tenebris Wharf logo. He held it against the reader by the door of apartment 27. The red indicator blinked, flashed green, and a soft click signaled the lock disengaging. Olsen pulled the heavy door open.
"After you, Mr. Vale," he took a step back, clearly unwilling to enter first. His face was ashen.
Simon stepped over the threshold. A cold, stale breath of emptiness hit him in the face, smelling of dust, fresh paint, and… something else. Something faintly familiar. Metallic. Static. *Wrong.*
**Apartment 27** revealed itself in all its lifeless sterility. A large living room with huge windows overlooking nighttime London and the dark ribbon of the Thames. No furniture, no pictures, no rugs. Just white walls, dark parquet covered in a fine layer of construction dust, and bare ceiling lights. The silence was absolute, oppressive. Simon felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He looked around. Nothing. Not the slightest hint of presence. No sound except their own breathing and the hollow echo of Olsen's hesitant footsteps as he reluctantly followed him inside.
"Here… here it is," Olsen whispered, looking around like a cornered animal. "Empty. As always. But… but in the evening…"
Simon wasn't listening. He walked slowly around the perimeter of the living room. His eyes scanned the floor, walls, ceiling, windows. He was looking for *discrepancies*. Chips, scratches, stains, any traces that might indicate the physical presence of someone or something. But the parquet was smooth, the dust – untouched in an even layer. The walls – immaculate. The windows tightly shut, the sills – spotless. He walked over to the light switch by the entrance. An ordinary plastic square. Clicked it. The ceiling lights came on with an even, cold light. Clicked again – they went off. Working perfectly.
"Where does the light usually come on?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
"In… in these, in the living room," Olsen pointed at the ceiling lights. "And the rustling… usually from here, the living room. Sometimes… sometimes it seems like from the bedroom, over there." He nodded towards an open door to the next room.
Simon moved towards the bedroom. It was smaller, also empty, with similarly large windows. The same smell of emptiness and dust. The same impeccable order and… expectation. He stopped in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, trying to *feel*. The chill in his chest from the scrap of fabric grew sharper. The air seemed thick, saturated with tension, like before a storm. He opened his eyes. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"You said your people and the police came in here right after the lights came on?" he asked, walking back into the living room.
"Yes! Literally a minute or two later!" Olsen confirmed. "And always like this! Empty!"
Simon walked to the window, gazing at the city lights drowning in the fog. Somewhere out there was his shabby Soho flat. And here… here was a trap. A trap for his mind? Or for something else? He turned to Olsen.
"Alright. I'll stay. Alone. I'll wait for… their time."
Olsen's eyes widened. "Alone? Here? But… but if something…"
"If something happens, I'll call," Simon interrupted him. His voice sounded firmer than he felt. "I need to observe without witnesses. And without… distractions." He nodded towards apartment 28, from where the muffled drone of a TV could be heard.
Olsen hesitated, clearly torn between the desire to flee and responsibility. "I… I'll be downstairs, with the concierge. I have a radio… But… be careful, Mr. Vale."
"Don't worry, Mr. Olsen. Just close the door. I'll lock it from the inside."
The manager cast another fearful glance around the empty apartment, nodded, and almost ran out into the corridor. The heavy door closed behind him with a dull thud. Simon turned the deadbolt – a massive metal rod slid into place. Now he was alone.
He pulled a small but powerful flashlight and a cheap digital recorder from his coat pocket. He switched on the recorder, placed it on the floor by the wall, and leaned back against the wall opposite the windows, in the semi-darkness. The light from the street faintly illuminated the vast empty room, casting long, ominous shadows. He took out his notebook and pencil but didn't write. He just waited. Listened to the silence. It wasn't absolute. Somewhere far away, the city hummed. There was the faint drone of the building's systems. His own breathing. And that feeling… The feeling that *someone was already here*. Invisible. Breathing down his neck. Watching him from the corner of the room where the shadows were deepest.
Simon froze, peering into the darkness. His hand instinctively clenched around the cold metal of the bag in his jacket pocket. *Tenebris.* Darkness. He was inside it. And it was waiting.
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, with a sharp, loud **CLICK**, right above him, **the ceiling lights flared on**, flooding the room with a blinding, unnaturally white light.
Simon flinched, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden brightness. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs. He opened his eyes, squinting.
And heard it.
**A rustle.**
Clear, unambiguous. As if someone had **taken a single step** barefoot on the dusty parquet. **Right in the middle of the empty living room.**