The first week in London had not been kind to Ava.
Every night, her sleep grew thinner, like a thread unraveling. The shadows in her rented flat stretched longer than they should. Footsteps echoed from the corridor though no one lived on her floor. Sometimes, she would wake to the sound of breathing at the edge of her bed—slow, ragged, patient—but the moment she flicked on the lamp, nothing was there.
By the time Friday came, Ava's hands trembled every time she reached for her keys. Coffee no longer sharpened her, it only made her heart race faster. And the neighbors—those who smiled at her in the stairwell—now avoided her eyes. One old woman had muttered under her breath as Ava passed, something about "the wrong flat" and "the wrong girl."
Still, Ava pressed on. She had not left her life behind in Brighton just to run from whispers.
---
The day of the archives.
It was nearing dusk when Ava descended the stone steps into the London City Archives, an old brick building that carried the scent of mildew and burnt paper. She had signed up to research case files for her thesis, but secretly, she sought something else—anything that could explain why her new home felt… cursed.
The clerk behind the oak desk barely looked up as she gave her name.
"Basement level," he mumbled, sliding a brass key across the wood. His hands shook slightly. "Room C. Don't linger."
The words chilled her more than the draft that rolled up from the stairwell.
---
The basement smelled of rust and damp cloth. Rows of shelves loomed like soldiers, packed with folders and crumbling leather books. The bulb above flickered in uneven bursts, casting jerky shadows along the wall.
Ava pressed forward, her shoes crunching on dust. She found the shelf marked Residences – North London, 1890–1930, and began to pull files.
At first it was nothing unusual—old tenancy agreements, notes on collapsed chimneys, water damage reports. But then, tucked between two swollen folders, she found a thinner one. No title, just a single red mark on the corner.
She opened it.
Inside lay brittle photographs—black-and-white images of her very building. Same brickwork. Same iron stairwell. Even the cracked window she had noticed on her first day. But the date written in ink at the bottom read 1899.
Her throat tightened. The flat hadn't just been standing for over a century—it had been documented for something.
She flipped to the next photograph.
A room with peeling wallpaper, a wooden bedframe. And on the bed, blurred but unmistakable, sat a figure. Not fully visible, not quite solid. A pale outline, hunched, staring at the camera as though it knew it was being watched.
Ava's breath hitched. Her chest ached as she whispered, "This is my room."
---
Behind her, something shuffled.
The sound of cloth dragging over stone.
Ava spun around. Nothing but the shelves, still and silent. But the bulb flickered harder, stuttering so violently it left the room in strips of light and dark.
And in those flashes—she saw it.
For the briefest second, between the shelves, a face emerged. Hollow eyes, a jaw too wide, skin stretched thin as parchment. Then gone.
Ava dropped the file, papers scattering across the floor. Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her through the corridor of shelves, the echo of her heartbeat drowning the silence.
She burst out into the stairwell, slamming the door to the basement behind her.
But just before the door clicked shut, she heard it—
A whisper, faint yet clear, slithering through the crack.
"Not yours. Never yours."
---
By the time Ava stumbled back onto the main street, the London night had already swallowed the city. Lights glimmered in the windows, taxis roared past, and people laughed as if nothing strange ever lurked beneath their feet.
But Ava knew better. She clutched the one photograph she hadn't dropped—the image of her flat, the blurred figure on the bed—tight against her chest.
Her flat wasn't just haunted.
It had been waiting for her.
---
The second night in the Holloway house was different.
The air felt thicker, as though the walls themselves had inhaled and refused to let go. Shadows stretched unnaturally, elongating in ways that made no sense, curling along the plaster like smoke rising from a hidden fire. Ava told herself she was imagining it, that fatigue was playing tricks. Yet her pulse betrayed her. Every step down the corridor struck the wooden floor like a drumbeat.
She held the candle close, the flame trembling as though aware of what lay ahead. A draft licked the hall, though all windows had been shut. Then—soft, almost delicate—came the sound. Not the groan of wood or sigh of wind. This was more precise. A shuffle. A whisper. The cadence of someone—or something—breathing with her.
Her hand grazed the wallpaper. It peeled at the edge, brittle beneath her touch, revealing another layer beneath. A different pattern. Older. Darker. She tugged slightly, the paper tearing with a quiet rip, and a smell rose—mildew, dust, but also something coppery, faint yet unmistakable. Like rust. Like blood.
Behind her, the stairwell groaned. She spun, flame jerking. Nothing. Yet the house seemed to lean closer, listening.
Ava whispered under her breath, though she wasn't sure why. "You're only walls. You're only wood." But the words felt hollow, like prayers spoken to a god that never answered.
The whisper came again. This time nearer.
Her chest tightened. She stepped backward, away from the peeling wallpaper, until her shoulder brushed the doorframe of the study. She hadn't entered that room since arriving. The key dangled from the knob, rusted, begging to be turned.
Something in her bones told her to run. But curiosity—or perhaps compulsion—moved her hand. The key screeched as it turned.
The door yawned open.
Inside, the candlelight revealed rows of books, their spines swollen from damp, titles rubbed into oblivion. Papers littered the desk, but they weren't blank. They bore writing, scrawled in frantic hands. Black ink, sometimes smeared, sometimes etched so deep the nib had torn through the page.
Ava leaned closer.
It watches. It waits. The house remembers.
Her breath caught. She flipped another page.
Not a house. Never a house. Bones, teeth, breath in the walls. Do not feed it your fear.
The candle flickered violently, guttering as if about to die. Then came the sharp slam of the door behind her. She froze, head snapping up.
Someone stood in the corner.
Not shadow. Not trick of light. A figure, half-seen, half-formed, its face blurred as though the air itself refused to give it shape. It leaned forward, and Ava felt it—heatless breath, cold yet damp, brushing her cheek.
Her scream caught in her throat.
The papers scattered at her feet shifted, one slipping free as though pushed by unseen hands. The ink there was fresher, darker. She hadn't seen it before.
Three words.
You are chosen.
The flame went out.
And the house exhaled.
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