The House On Ashen Lane

Ashen Lane curved off the high road like a spine, narrow and cobbled, lined with houses leaning conspiratorially toward one another. Their soot-darkened bricks sagged under centuries of rain, windows flickering with the faint glow of gaslight from within. The street felt like it was holding its breath, waiting.

I hadn’t intended to end up here. My flatmate had gone sour, thus ending my time and i was desperate, answering adverts without thinking. The first time I saw Miriam Lacey’s house, I thought I’d stepped into another era, a forgotten London tucked behind soot and fog, out of step with the city’s endless roar.

She opened the door before I could knock.

“You must be Daniel,” she said.

She was unexpectedly small, bird-boned, wrapped in a cardigan several sizes too large. She smiled, her eyes unnaturally large, looking at me expectantly.

“Yes,” I said.

“Come in. You must be freezing.” She ushered, eager.

Inside, the house was cluttered but lived-in: books stacked in uneven towers, furniture slightly askew, dust motes drifting in the weak winter sunlight. The air smelled of lavender and something earthy, like wet soil or decayed leaves.

I noticed her hesitation at the foot of the stairs, almost imperceptible, a flicker of fear in her eyes. I filed it away. Little details like that always mattered to me.

She led me upstairs to my room. Narrow, with a small bed, a desk beneath a sash window, and a wardrobe that leaned as though exhausted. Outside, Ashen Lane was slick with rain, puddles reflecting the grey London sky.

“It’s not grand,” she said. “But it’s quiet. I can’t abide strangers everywhere. Just this one room, that’s all.”

I accepted it. Cheap rent, warm room, a roof over my head. I was desperate.

Days slipped into routine. I left early, returned late. Miriam kept to herself, moving silently in the evenings, humming faint tunes that never resolved. Occasionally she left meals outside my door: shepherd’s pie, stew, casseroles, enough for two, though she rarely ate herself.

She told me her husband was gone. Never why, never how. Only that he “wasn’t kind.” I pitied her, as one does someone fragile. Loneliness does strange things to people.

But something about her stillness unsettled me. She had the kind of quiet that could hide anything. I noticed how she avoided certain corners of the room, how she flinched at creaks I barely heard. Maybe she was hiding something. Or maybe, I thought, I was already imagining it.

The first noise came a week after I moved in.

Half-asleep, I heard a faint scraping below. At first, I thought it was a branch against glass. But no...the sound came from inside the house.

The next night, a muffled thud.

By the third evening, I mentioned it at breakfast.

“Do you ever hear noises at night?” I asked.

Her spoon froze. “You heard them?”

“Yes. Scraping. A thud.”

Relief flashed in her eyes. “Then I’m not mad. They’re there.”

“Who?”

“The neighbours. They whisper through the walls. They want me out. Always have.”

I tried to laugh. She gripped my wrist with sudden strength. “Promise me, Daniel. Don’t go into the cellar. That’s where they hide. If you open the door, you’ll let them out.”

Her touch was cold.

I promised.

Though I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she might be hiding.

The cellar door was at the back, half-hidden by a curtain. I wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t spoken of it.

One afternoon, with her out for groceries, I tried the handle. Locked.

Keys hung on a hook in the kitchen. I chose one at random. Click. It turned.

A cold, sour breeze escaped from the crack beneath the door. I didn’t go down. Not yet. I only listened. Faint sounds drifted upward...a groan, almost human. I thought, maybe i should go down, but it was fear that stopped me. Instead, I made a mental note of it. Later, I would record every detail, every tremor in the house, every pause in her footsteps. Patterns mattered. When she returned, her gaze lingered on me, sharp and assessing.

“You shouldn’t meddle,” she said. “The past belongs where it is.”

I nodded. “Of course.”

But I remembered every word, every hesitation.

The noises grew. Thuds, scratches, whispers sounded like my name. I pressed my ear against the cellar door. It was a sudden eerie silence.

Sleep abandoned me. I began scribbling notes. Times, sounds, patterns.

I noticed small things about Miriam I hadn’t before: the way she avoided my gaze, the way she stiffened when I moved too close. Little clues, invisible to anyone else. To me, they were everything.

By mid-February, I was consumed by tension. Every creak, every whisper, every locked door fed the fire. I sketched floor plans, timed her departures, marked every minor inconsistencies. Miriam became a figure of suspicion, every word a potential lie.

One evening, I confronted her.

“You haven’t told me the truth about him,” I pushed.

Her face drained of colour. “Don’t ask, Daniel. Some truths poison everything.”

I pressed. “Tell me what’s down there.”

She shook her head. “It’s just the past. That’s all. I can’t bear it.”

I thought: yes, you can. I will make you.

I sit on the floor of my own house, every creak of the boards magnified in my chest. Daniel is here, watching, pacing, scribbling in notebooks I cannot touch. I do not move. I do not speak unless he asks. Silence is survival.

He tells me he’s uncovering the truth, that the house hides secrets I refuse to see. I nod when necessary. I watch his hands tremble as he marks times, makes charts, writes observations about me, my routines, my habits, my silences.

Sometimes I wonder if he believes I am his enemy, or if he believes I am helpless. Perhaps both. He says he wants to protect me, though I know better. He holds the keys. He controls the doors. I am a guest in my own home.

The cellar door remains closed. He has not yet dared, though I sense his curiosity burning, unrelenting. Each time he glances at it, I hold my breath, imagining what he thinks he might find. And yet I know: it does not matter. There is no truth hidden there, only fragments of a life he cannot understand, a past he refuses to respect.

I have memorised his routines. I know when he will pause, when he will write, when he will mutter his theories aloud. I count the seconds until he tires, until he leaves a door ajar, a moment of carelessness. But I am learning patience — the only weapon I have that might matter.

I am terrified. And yet, I also feel a strange clarity. He is the danger, yes, but he is human, flawed, obsessed. I cannot trust him, but I cannot fully trust myself either. Every creak, every shadow, every whisper feels magnified by his presence. He bends reality, even here in the rooms I know by heart.

I do not move. I wait.

Outside, Ashen Lane lies quiet, indifferent. The house exhales. And in the shadows, the line between his imagination and reality is impossible to discern.