Chapter Text
The corridor on the seventh floor smelt of peeling paint and dust. Simon Riley found a certain comfort in it: no one ever came up there. Ever. He set his bag down at his feet and reached into his jacket pocket for his keys, but stopped short when he sensed something unusual. A door standing open. Opposite. The door he had always seen shut, sealed up for years.
“Bloody hell…” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone who might hear.
There came the sound of hurried footsteps, a box hitting the floor, then a bright voice laced with a northern accent:
“Och, sorry! I’m not in your way, am I?” Simon looked up. A younger man, sporting a ridiculous mohawk, arms full of books and boxes, was staring at him with a wide grin. “I’m just movin' in opposite. Looks like we’re gonnae be neighbours!”
“No.”
The word snapped out sharply as Ghost shut the door in his face. Behind it, he stood motionless for a moment.
A neighbour.
Hell.
He would have preferred a rat infestation.
The top floor of the old building was always quiet. There was a wide corridor, floorboards that creaked with age, and two doors facing each other. The one on the left had remained closed for years. The one on the right, It was recognisable by the sound of the lock: always the same, sharp and regular, at almost always exact times.
It was Simon Riley's.
The flat was neither dirty nor dilapidated, just old. The walls bore the marks of time, the mouldings dulled, the paint slightly cracked near the windows. Everything was tidy, in its place. The surfaces had nothing to hide: an empty sink, a bare worktop, a sofa that had never been used to receive anyone. Silence was part of the décor.
Sometimes, you could think you heard the city below: a bus braking, a distant siren, the murmur of fine rain against the tin roof. But here, these sounds seemed muffled, as though they didn’t dare cross the threshold.
The man who lived there didn't like noise.
Here, everything seemed cut off from the world. Ghost left nothing lying about, neither objects nor traces. No photos on the walls, no open books, no visible clothes. His presence was barely perceptible: a pair of boots lined up under the coat rack, a jacket folded on the back of a chair. The air had that cold smell, a mixture of washing powder, metal and black tea. He came home, closed the door, locked it without thinking, went through the same motions he'd done for years. The routine was reassuring. It protected him. You never saw his face. He went down in the lift with a hood, sometimes a black balaclava that covered everything, revealing only his gaze. Some neighbours had passed him once or twice in the hall, enough to remember his stature and his silence. But few were those who heard him leave in the morning or saw him come home in the evening.
They'd nicknamed him the ghost: Ghost.
Simon Riley had never bothered to correct them.
In his flat, the world stopped. No ringing phone, no voices, no music. Nothing but the calm breathing of a man who lived alone, and who seemed content with it. Sometimes, late at night, he stood in front of the open window or on the roof terrace. He watched the city lights without really seeing them. A cigarette between his fingers, the smoke rising slowly in the darkness. No noise, no distraction, no visitors. Just the murmur of the wind against the windows.
Until one morning, at the beginning of September, when an incongruous noise broke the monotony of the floor. Boxes. Footsteps in the corridor. And a voice, cheerful, with an accent that had no business being here.
A house move.
The idea seemed absurd to him. His landlord had sworn to him that he'd be alone on this floor. No one else. That was even what had convinced him to sign the lease.
Like almost every evening, he came home at the same time. The corridor light had already turned that tired yellow it took on at the end of the day, when the bulb started to warm up. The lift squeaked behind him before closing with a sharp click. The corridor smelt of dust and damp cardboard. Ghost frowned: there were marks on the floor, dark traces, as if someone had dragged heavy objects up here. In front of the opposite door, a pile of boxes was stacked up, covered in labels and sticky tape. Some still bore badly erased inscriptions in crude handwriting: Kitchen, Books, Clothes.
He froze.
The space, usually spacious and empty, suddenly seemed too cramped. The sound of footsteps rang out, then a voice; clear, energetic, marked with a Scottish accent so strong it clashed with the greyness of the building:
“Och, sorry! I’m not in your way, am I?”
Ghost looked up. A man stood in front of the open door, in a t-shirt despite the cold, his arms loaded with a box bigger than him. His hair, styled in a mohawk, stuck to his forehead, a confident smile spread across his face.
He had that kind of loud presence that seemed to push the air around him. Simon said nothing, he passed by him without a word, his bag on his shoulder, his gait stiff. He carefully avoided looking at him, didn't even turn his head. The bloke continued, undeterred:
“I’m just movin' in opposite. Looks like we’re gonnae be neighbours!”
"No."
Click.
The door closed right in front of the new neighbour. In the corridor, he could still hear the muffled voice of the newcomer, not knowing whether he was addressing him or someone else:
"Och aye... Not very chatty, the neighbour."
Then the sound of a box being put down, a brief laugh. Ghost locked his door and the silence slowly returned.
The next morning, the corridor no longer smelt of dust. A smell of coffee came from the opposite door, mingled with that of cardboard and cheap air freshener. Ghost went out as usual, head down. On the landing, shoes were lying about, a coat hung on an improvised peg, and the radio on the other side of the half-open door was playing an old rock tune too cheerful for the hour. He crossed without another glance.
"Good morning, neighbour!" called out the familiar voice from the half-open door.
No response. Just the sound of the lift doors closing.
The following days were torture. The neighbour was everywhere. Not physically; Ghost made sure never to run into him. But his presence seeped into every corner of the corridor, like a silent invasion that didn't announce itself. In the morning, it was music. Not loud, but enough to go through the walls: Scottish rock, electric guitars, sometimes a male voice singing in a language Ghost didn't understand. In the evening, it was cooking smells. Spices, grilled meat, sometimes fresh bread. Things that had no business being in this building where no one ever cooked.
And then there were the noises. Footsteps in the corridor. A door slamming. A laugh on the phone, muffled but audible. The creak of a chair being pulled out. Objects being moved, installed, hung. Ghost gritted his teeth. He'd lived for years without hearing anything but the wind against the windows and the distant hum of the city. Now, there was someone. Someone who lived. Who breathed. Who existed on the other side of the wall. It was unbearable.
On the fourth day, Ghost came home later than usual. Almost midnight. He hoped his neighbour would be in bed, that the corridor would be empty, silent like before. But no. The opposite door was ajar, a warm light spilled into the corridor. Ghost heard a metallic sound, as if someone was rummaging in a toolbox. He quickened his pace, keys already in hand.
"Oi, hello!"
Fuck.
His neighbour had come out of his flat, a screwdriver in hand, his hair dishevelled. He wore a Black Watch t-shirt and jogging bottoms torn at the knee. His smile was still as broad, as if Ghost hadn't slammed the door in his face a few days earlier. Simon didn't respond. He inserted his key into the lock and turned it.
"I've got a wee problem with my lock," he continued, as if they were in the middle of a conversation. "It's sticking a bit. You wouldnae happen to have some oil, would you?" Ghost didn't respond. He pushed his door open. "Or even just some advice, I don't really know how-"
Click.
The door closed. Ghost locked it quickly. He remained motionless for a few seconds, his hand on the handle, his jaw clenched. Behind the wall, he heard a sigh, then the sound of a door closing gently. No laugh, this time. No casual remark. Just silence. And something about that silence disturbed Ghost more than he wanted to admit.
The next morning, Ghost went down to collect his post. When he came back up, he found something in front of his door. A small parcel, wrapped in kraft paper. No label, no message. Just a yellow Post-it stuck on it, with round, slightly slanting handwriting:
"Just in case. No need to say thank you. J."
Ghost frowned. He picked up the parcel, weighed it. Light. He tore the paper. Inside: a packet of chocolate biscuits. He stood there, the packet in one hand, the paper in the other. Then he went in, closed the door, and threw it all on the kitchen counter without a glance.
The biscuits stayed there for three days. On the fourth, the packet was empty.
The weeks passed. His neighbour didn't give up. Every time they crossed paths; in the corridor, in front of the lift, on the landing, he threw out a cheerful "Hello!" as if they were old friends. Sometimes, he added a comment about the weather, about the noise of the plumbing, about the fact that the lift smelt odd that day. During the conversations he seemed to be having with himself, he'd managed to give him his first name; John. Ghost didn't care, but he'd remembered it. Ghost never answered. But he didn't slam the door in his face anymore either. At first, it was involuntary. He left his flat just as John was coming back from shopping, his arms laden with bags. Simon stopped, keys in hand, and waited for the other to pass. John took advantage of it to talk.
"Bloody freezing today, isn't it? I thought I was gonnae lose my fingers going down to get the bread." No response. "Are you more of a tea or coffee person, you? I'm asking because I've bought both, but I never know which one tae have in the morning." Ghost inserted his key into the lock, but didn't turn it straight away. "Me, it's coffee. Black. No sugar. Like a proper hard man, ye know?"
A chuckle. John laughed at his own joke, as if it didn't matter that no one else found it funny. Simon pushed his door open, breathed out, not like a sigh, more like a kind of concealed amusement, then he went in. But he didn't close the door immediately. He stayed there, in the doorway, listening to his neighbour continue to talk to himself whilst rummaging for his keys.
"Anyway, good evening, neighbour. Take care of yourself."
Click.
One evening, Ghost came home with a shopping bag. Just the essentials: bread, milk, a few tins. He didn't like going to the shops, but he had no choice. His neighbour was going out at the same moment, a jacket, which reminded him of military jackets, on his back, a gym bag on his shoulder.
"Oye, hello!" Simon didn't respond. He stopped in front of his door, searched for his keys in his pocket. "Coming back from shopping? I was going to the gym. Got to get some exercise, a body like mine needs maintaining." Ghost found his keys, inserted them into the lock. "Are you into sport or not at all? Well, looking at your build, it seems obvious." One turn of the key. Simon pushed the door open, but didn't go in straight away. He stayed there, motionless, the shopping bag in his hand. John continued, a little more softly this time: "Right, I'll leave you in peace. But if ever you fancy a coffee one day, or just... I don't know, saying hello, my door's open."
Ghost let a few seconds pass before going in. Then he said in a deep tone, so low that his neighbour almost didn't hear it:
"Tea."
The door closed.