The banging door

I knew from the word go there was something dodgy about that flat but what could I do? I’d seen twenty different flats, all of them too expensive or too grimy or too damp or in an area that looked like a war zone. So despite it being creepy, despite it being a little grimy, despite my reservations, it was the best one I’d seen and needs must as they say.

My flat was the only one on the top floor, perched in the roof like a shivering pigeon. The rest of the house was split into 6 flats on two floors, and all of them were under reconstruction.  I’d been promised one of the spanking new flats when the building work was done and it was that that made the grubby little loft flat seem worth it. But who knew when the work would be finished? I’d been living there for three weeks already and I’d seen no evidence that any work was being done at all.

The staircase was narrow and dusty, there was a musty smell, a mixture of damp and dirt and rotting garbage. I wondered if the communal areas had ever been cleaned; that was the problem with these old houses, no one ever took responsibility for the bits in between the flats, meaning the layers of dust built up along with the layers of post.

The rain fell all night, banging on the roof and clattering the windows. The wind howled like a dog deserted outside a supermarket. I lay awake listening to the sounds of the elements; the house creaked and cried like a scared child. I was close to dropping off, but just asmy mind got lost in sleep’s labyrinth a door banged somewhere in one of the flats below me jerking me awake.

I decided I had to go and find out where the rogue door was. I left my flat and went down the stairs, the gloomy light from the single bulb in the stairway cast shadows on the walls, the floorboards creaked beneath my bare feet, the wind howled up the stairs. The door to flat 4 was open, but the banging was coming from inside it. I pushed the door and tried the light switch; the electricity was off. I turned on my phone’s torch and took a step into the flat. The rotting garbage smell was worse here, a sickly smell that filled my lungs. The air glistened in the beam of light, I could see the source of the banging; the kitchen door was not quite closed. I pushed it shut and heard it click. It was sticky, probably wet paint, I thought. I rubbed my hand on my pyjama top and carefully retraced my steps, feeling glad that I’d solved the problem and could finally get some sleep. The gloomy hall light seemed like daybreak in comparison to the pungent darkness of flat 4, I crept back to my loft and locked my door, feeling safe as the key clunked in the lock; a quick wee before bed and hopefully I’d be in the labyrinth in no time at all.

The bathroom light burnt my eyes, it took me a moment to notice the smear of red down my pyjama top and my blood stained hand fumbling with the cord of my pyjamas.