The flat was too good to be true. Two bedrooms in Bloomsbury for eight hundred a month, available immediately. Nell had called within minutes of seeing the advert, expecting it to be gone or a scam. Instead, the landlord seemed almost eager to hand over the keys.
“Previous tenant left suddenly,” he’d explained, avoiding her eyes. “Family emergency.”
Now, unpacking boxes in the sitting room, Nell noticed the coffee ring stains on the side table. Fresh ones. The blinds stuck when she tried to adjust them, as if someone had been opening and closing them repeatedly. In the bedroom, she found a dent in the wall beside the bed—the sort made by someone kicking in their sleep.
Still, she couldn’t afford to be precious. The divorce had left her skint, and student housing had fallen through. This place was a miracle. She’d ignore the lingering smell of someone else’s life.
Three days later, opening the wardrobe revealed a jacket that wasn’t hers. Navy wool, expensive. Nell held it up, frowning. Probably the landlord had missed it during the clear-out. After folding it carefully, she left it on the spare bed.
By morning, it was back in the wardrobe.
Nell stared at the hanging jacket, her coffee growing cold. She distinctly remembered moving it. But perhaps she’d been more tired than she’d thought. The stress of starting her PhD, the upheaval of the move—it was affecting her memory.
Standing in the kitchen that evening, she discovered her milk nearly empty. Half a pint gone. Yesterday she’d bought it, barely touched it. From somewhere came the faint sound of water running—the bathroom tap, dripping steadily into the basin.
She turned it off firmly and made a mental note to mention it to the landlord.
Morning brought another discovery: the shower cubicle was damp. Running her fingers along the tiles, Nell confirmed they were definitely wet, though she hadn’t showered yet. Condensation, perhaps—old buildings held moisture strangely.
But the toothbrush beside hers was damp too.
With trembling fingers, she picked it up. Blue handle, soft bristles. Not hers. Never seen it before, yet it sat there as if it belonged, as if it had always been there.
“Previous tenant left suddenly,” the landlord had said.
Locking her bedroom door at night became routine. Installing a chain on the front door, checking every window before bed—none of it helped. Still she’d wake to sounds: the soft shuffle of feet in the hallway, the gentle click of the bathroom door, the whisper of fabric against fabric.
One evening, she returned from the library to find a note slipped under her door:
So looking forward to meeting you. —N
Her hands shook as she read it. The handwriting was neat, unfamiliar. But what made her stomach lurch was the initial. N. For Nell.
Or for someone else entirely.
That night, she heard breathing. Not her own—this came from the sitting room, deep and rhythmic. She crept to her bedroom door and listened. The sound continued, punctuated by the soft rustle of someone settling into the sofa.
At 3am, she heard the shower running.
She lay rigid until dawn, staring at her locked door. When she finally emerged, she found her kitchen window open and a fresh cup of coffee cooling on the counter. Steam still rising from the surface.
The cup was still warm when she touched it.
Now she sits in the kitchen at midnight, watching the shadows. She’s tried leaving—packed her bags twice—but where would she go? She can’t afford anywhere else. The sublet agreement runs for six months.
The breathing in the sitting room has started again. Soft, peaceful. Whoever it is sounds comfortable, settled. At home.
The bathroom door clicks shut.
Footsteps approach.
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