Nathaniel Longmore hails from Leeds. Employment has brought him to the foggy, cobbled streets of Victorian London. His only problem is that he doesn’t know anyone. Fortune appears to smile on him after he responds, successfully, to an advertisement for a lodger. Sure his new landlady, Mrs Edith Collins, is perhaps a bit too austere, but the room is well-furnished and meals are included in the weekly rent.
But there’s something strange about the attic bedroom of Number 36 Haring Street. It’s not just the fact that things have a habit of moving about by themselves. There’s a feeling, a creeping sensation that he’s never alone in the room. At first he suspects no-nonsense Edith. There’s something a little strange about her, something not-quite-right, and it’s entirely possible she’s the culprit; sneaking around in his room while he’s out. The minute he opens his mouth to broach the subject with her, he regrets it.
How could he ever guess at what he discovers? You may think you know. You may even suspect part of the answer, but for Nathaniel his short sojourn at Haring Street is the catalyst for more than one revelation.
Nathaniel turned the covers down and climbed into bed. The cool, starched sheets felt soothing against his weary body. He leaned over and blew out the candle, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by four thin rays of moonlight which stole in through gaps in the curtains. Now there was nothing to do but snuggle into the mattress and wait for dreams.
* * * *
Beyond the confines of the bedroom walls, street lamps burned brightly in the quiet street below. Across the road a stray tabby fossicked through a tin rubbish bin it had managed to upend. It sat gorging itself on kitchen scraps that had spilled out onto the cobbled street, oblivious to its surroundings.
Above this scene, dark shadows floated eerily through the night sky, momentarily obscuring the full moon as they passed. Smoke from fireplace chimneys leaked into the darkness, filling the air with soot. Night birds fluttered from shadow to shadow, catching and feeding on the abundant mice and rats which scurried about in the filth below.
An owl flew onto the ledge of one of Nathaniel’s windows, perched there, watching and listening, before flying off again. Its keen hearing had detected the movement of a large rat as it scampered away from the feasting tabby. But while the rat had successfully managed to escape one set of claws, it had inadvertently run into another set. The screech of the owl and the flapping of its wings as it attacked and snatched up the rodent in its talons, startled the feline, who turned and fled in silence down the street.
* * * *
It may have been that small commotion that roused Nathaniel from a restful slumber, but whatever the cause, he found himself wide awake in the middle of the night. He sat up and scoured the shadows, and finding no evidence of anything amiss, he groaned and flopped back onto the mattress. As he lay wondering what had woken him, he suddenly became aware of another presence in the room. He sat bolt upright, eyes wide open and alert.
“Mrs Collins?” he called in a semi-whisper. “Is that you?”
No-one answered.
He was about to get out of bed when he saw a dark figure step into one of the shards of light stealing in through a chink in the curtains. With his heart beating a tattoo and his veins flooded with adrenalin, he froze.
“Hello?” he said in a weak, tentative voice.
When the figure didn’t reply, he leaned slowly over the bed, pulled the drawer of the bedside table open and felt about for the box of matches. As quickly as his fumbling hands could manage, he removed a match, struck it, and lit the candle in the candleholder, illuminating enough of the room to see his visitor more clearly.
“Who are you?” he asked, steeling his nerves.
