Archive of Our Own

Gerry had a rule: never stay anywhere too long. People got nosy, questions got asked, and his patience—thin as a razor's edge—wore out fast. But at twenty-one, after another week of sleeping in the backseat of his beat-up Honda with nothing but a knife under his pillow and a plastic bag of clothes in the trunk, the transience started to feel more like running than freedom. He wasn’t running from the law exactly, or at least not in any official capacity. It was more like he was running from the stale rot of his mother’s voice in his head, her cultish warnings and ice-pick stare that stuck with him even now, two years since they put her in the ground with a wooden rosary and a leather-bound book he hadn’t dared open.

He just wanted somewhere to be. Somewhere to not be seen. Somewhere else . 

The corkboard was crooked in the dim corner of the coffee shop, pin-holes layered over each other like a papery graveyard of failed attempts at connection. Most of the ads were the usual: "Tutors Needed,” “Lost Cat,” “Seeking Guitarist.” Then there was that one.

The paper was curled and slightly water-stained, but the handwriting was careful and deliberate—tight, slanted letters in thick black ink, each stroke with the obsessive weight of someone who really wanted you to read it. It didn’t say much, but it didn’t have to.

> Room Available – 2BR/1BA

> Need help with rent.

> Quiet building. Rent negotiable.

> Contact: Michael Shelley – (07231 467709) 

Gerry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He didn’t believe in that sort of thing. Not really . His mother had filled his childhood with warnings about spirits that lived in rot and things that whispered behind mirrors, and for a long time he’d believed her. But now? Now he was just a guy who dealt weed, occasionally worse, and tried not to think too hard about the creeping sensations he sometimes got walking past antique stores or closed churches.

But this handwriting… it felt like it knew something about him. It looked too tidy for a flatshare ad. Too intimate . The black ink almost seemed to glisten in the low light, like it hadn’t quite dried even though the paper was old. His fingers itched to touch it, but he didn't.

Instead, he snapped a photo with his phone and turned on his heel like he’d just caught himself doing something perverse.

He waited until he was outside, cigarette lit, boot planted against the side of the coffee shop wall, before pulling the number up. His thumb hovered over the call button for longer than he cared to admit.

Finally, he hit it.

It rang twice.

Then—click.

“...Hello?” 

A voice cracked through the receiver. It sounded like someone half-submerged in water, calm and quiet and oddly breathy.

“Uh. Hi. Yeah, I saw your ad? About the room? This is, uh—Gerard. Gerry, whatever.”

A pause. It didn’t feel like the kind where someone’s thinking. It felt like being measured .

“Oh. Right,” the voice said. “That’s still available.”

There was something distant about the way he said it, like he was surprised someone had called. Like maybe no one had for a long time.

Gerry shifted his weight, suddenly too aware of the cigarette burning down between his fingers. “Yeah? Cool. Uh, what’s the rent?”

“It’s... flexible,” Michael replied after a beat, almost like it wasn’t something he thought about often. “I mostly need someone to cover the utilities. I mean—I don’t mind someone else being here. I have the second bedroom cleared out. The walls are thick. You’d have your own space.”

Gerry snorted softly. “You’re really selling it, man.”

“I’m not very good at... marketing,” Michael admitted. “But if you want to come see it, you can.”

And then, like he was remembering it just then: “The address is 9 Wilberforce Road. Top flat.”

The cigarette nearly burned his fingers before Gerry dropped it and crushed it under his boot. He scribbled the address into his notes app without thinking.

“Alright. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

Click .

It started raining on the way there. Of course it did.

Gerry pulled up to the blocky brick building in an old part of town where everything looked either condemned or forgotten. Wilberforce Road was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful so much as watchful . The top flat was up two flights of creaky stairs that smelled like mildew and mold. Gerry hesitated at the last landing.

The door was painted a deep yellow, peeling at the corners, and was all but worn away around the faded brass handle. It was, indeed, unlocked.

He pushed it open.

It didn’t creak. It should have.

The hallway was narrow, lit only by a single weak bulb above a peeling coat rack. The flat was oddly... clean. Not sterile— lived in —but untouched. A strange hum filled the air, like the distant buzz of an old television on a static channel—just quiet enough to make you wonder if you imagined it.

He stepped in fully, boots squeaking faintly on the wood floor.

“Michael?” he called.

No answer at first.

Then, from the room at the end of the hall, a soft voice:

“In here.”

Gerry followed the sound and stopped dead in the doorway.

The young man inside was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pale as paper, in a sweater two sizes too big. There was a cup of tea in front of him and several small, strange objects— Coins, keys… bones?—laid out in a semicircle. His hair was a tangle of pale curls and his eyes didn’t quite meet Gerry’s.

“You’re real,” Michael said quietly, like that was something he had to confirm.

Gerry blinked. “...You’re weird.”

Michael smiled faintly, as if that were the best thing anyone had said to him in a long time.

“So are you.”

Michael stood slowly, tea forgotten, rising like a piece of parchment caught on a draft. He was tall —the kind of tall that made rooms look smaller and ceilings lower. Easily 6’4, maybe more. His limbs were long and delicate, hands hanging at his sides like they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. The oversized sweater, a murky gray-green, hung off his frame like it had been made for someone else and simply settled on him by mistake.

Gerry had to tilt his head back slightly to meet his gaze, despite the boots that usually gave him an edge in height. There was a small moment of quiet tension as they just looked at each other, Michael’s pale green eyes wide and strangely glassy.

And those pupils—black and huge and wrong . Gerry’s first instinct was drugs. Something strong. Psychedelics maybe, or some shit that cooked your synapses and made your eyes look like bottomless pits.

It should’ve made him tense. Should’ve tripped that inner alarm that screamed unpredictable junkie , but instead, Gerry felt… weirdly reassured. If Michael was strung out, then he wasn’t about to call the cops over a bag of special K in the wrong drawer. Probably wouldn't even notice. Maybe they’d get along.

Michael’s voice broke the silence—still soft, still a little dreamy, but warmer now, less distant than on the phone. “You can take a look around. It’s not much, but it’s clean.”

Gerry followed as Michael turned and walked down the short hall. His steps were silent. The wood didn’t creak under his feet like it had under Gerry’s.

The room was at the very end, and it looked like someone had tried, half-heartedly, to make it hospitable. The bed was an old metal frame that shrieked in protest as Gerry pressed a hand on it to test the mattress. Thin as paper. The end table leaned slightly to the left like it had suffered some long-forgotten injury. Gerry doubted it could support more than a phone and a pack of cigarettes.

But it was the armoire that pulled at him.

It didn’t match anything else in the room. The walls were pale, the carpet stained in spots, but the armoire—that thing looked like it had been hauled in from a gothic cathedral. Old wood, carved edges, and the kind of heavy presence that made it seem like it had opinions. The mirrored doors were tall and foggy, the glass warped in strange, uneven ways like whoever made it hadn’t quite known how mirrors were supposed to work. In one warped corner, it looked like the surface of a pond frozen mid-ripple. Another spot near the top had a swirling pattern in the glass, as if someone had pressed a finger into it while it was still molten, twisting it just so.

Gerry stared at his own reflection. It looked off. He looked off. Longer face, slightly hunched posture that he didn’t have, like the mirror had its own idea of what he should be.

Michael stood behind him in the doorway. “It was here when I moved in. I don’t use it.”

Gerry glanced back at him. “Why not?”

Michael gave a strange, almost sheepish shrug. “It doesn’t like me.”

Gerry barked a laugh before he could stop himself, then turned back to the mirror. “Right. Okay. So the mirror has opinions.”

Michael didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile.

Gerry frowned. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Michael only said, “It doesn’t show everyone the same things.”

Gerry turned fully, brows lifted. “And what, it showed you something bad?”

Michael’s eyes flicked to the armoire, then back to Gerry. “It showed me something , yes.”

That shut Gerry up.

A long pause. Then Michael blinked, suddenly self-conscious like he'd returned to his body. “You don’t have to use it. The closet in the hall works fine. You could cover it, if it bothers you.”

“I’ll manage,” Gerry muttered. He stepped away from the thing, but the feeling of being watched didn’t go with him. “How’s the plumbing?”

Michael actually smiled at that. “Reliable. Water pressure’s good. No hard water.”

“Great,” Gerry said. He hesitated, then added, “Rent?”

Michael shrugged again, the movement a bit jerky this time. “Whatever you can afford, utilities are only two-hundred in total. I just need... someone else . I don’t like being alone.”

Gerry raised an eyebrow. “That why you put up the ad?”

Michael looked toward the mirror, not meeting his eyes. “No. I put up the ad because the flat asked me to.”

That gave Gerry actual pause. Something cold curled under his ribs.

He scoffed—lightly, carefully. “Right. Of course. That makes sense.”

But even as he said it, something in him twisted. Like an old knot tugged a little tighter.

Michael gave a small nod, like he appreciated that Gerry didn’t press.

They stood in silence for another beat before Gerry said, “I’ll take it.”

The rain had thinned to a mist by the time Gerry made it back out to his car. The air had that sharp, metallic scent it always got after a storm, like wet concrete and ozone. The Honda sat where he left it, stoic and rust-stained, a kind of reluctant companion through the worst of his years. He popped the trunk and stared at his life packed into too little space.

A duffel bag slumped against one side, stuffed with clothes that smelled faintly of smoke and cheap soap. His backpack sat beside it—scratched and weathered, the fabric near the zipper long torn and re-stitched with dental floss. He slung it over one shoulder and reached in for the other item: a small, unassuming wooden box, smooth and worn at the corners, carved with looping symbols that didn’t mean anything—at least not to him. Inside, zip bags and tins tucked into foam cutouts, labeled only in shorthand he invented for paranoid reasons. Coke, ket, benzos, two tabs of something he didn’t recognize anymore. The last of it, for now. His backup plan, his income stream, his shield.

Then, he reached under the spare tire compartment and pulled out the book.

It was wrapped in an old scarf, more for protection than secrecy, but the act still felt… ritualistic . Like handling a relic. He unwrapped it carefully, fingertips brushing over the dark cloth, and looked down at the thing he could never bring himself to throw away.

It was thick, the spine cracked and fraying. The cover was a deep blue-grey, the kind that looked black in the wrong lighting. No title. No author. Just a single embossed mark on the front—three circles nested within each other, barely visible unless you tilted it just right.

Inside, the pages were faded and yellowed, written entirely in Dutch. His mother never spoke Dutch—not fluently, anyway—but she could read it, and she used to run her fingers down the pages like she was tracing old scars. She’d never told him what it meant, just said it was “ important .”

The text made his eyes blur if he tried to focus too hard on it. Not just the language— something else . He’d tried translating a page once with an old dictionary and some half-baked internet resources. Gave up after five minutes and a headache that lasted all day.

But the illustrations… those he could understand.

One page showed a house with a door that was just a little too tall. Another had a cross-section of a flower with labels pointing not to the parts of a plant, but to emotions. Sorrow etched into a petal. Joy tucked under a leaf.

Rooms, too. Interiors sketched in fine ink, walls warped in impossible ways, furniture at uncanny angles. Some were empty. Others had tiny human figures, vague and scribbled, always facing away from the reader.

Once, years ago, he’d found a drawing that looked exactly like his childhood bedroom. Right down to the crack in the ceiling and the chipped leg on the desk. His mother had only smiled when he pointed it out and said, “ That’s because you remember it.”

He hadn’t asked her what that meant.

Now, the book felt heavier than usual as he tucked it under one arm and slammed the trunk shut. The rain picked up again, light but persistent. Gerry lit a cigarette with one hand and inhaled deep before heading back upstairs.

The flat was quiet when he stepped in, door still unlocked. No sign of Michael, though Gerry swore he caught the faintest hint of humming down the hall. It faded the second he noticed it.

He carried his things into the bedroom, set them down by the warped mirror without looking into it, and sat heavily on the bed. The springs creaked like a sigh. The book sat on his lap, and he thumbed through it, not reading, just flipping. Page after page of strange diagrams, half-familiar places, cryptic faces turned away.

The rain pattered softly against the window.

The mirror behind him creaked.

He froze.

It was probably just the frame settling, wood shifting with the humidity. Probably .

He turned, slow.

His own reflection stared back. Mostly.

For a split second—only a blink—he thought he saw something else in the corner. A figure. Tall. Thin.

Gerry slammed the book shut and stood up fast enough that the end table shuddered on its uneven leg.

From the hallway, Michael’s voice drifted in—unbothered, quiet, like he was just talking to himself.

“Some doors open even when you don’t knock.”

Gerry shook off the chill creeping up his spine, scrubbing a hand through his hair and muttering, “ Get a grip, mate.”

He turned his back to the mirror and got to work unpacking.

Clothes came first—rumpled T-shirts, hoodies faded from wear, jeans with cigarette burns on the thighs. He opened the armoire’s heavy doors, half-expecting it to groan like something ancient and haunted, but it was silent. Inside was surprisingly clean, if a bit musty. The rod was low and the wood darker than it looked from the outside. He hung his clothes quickly, not looking too long at the warped mirror, just enough to judge spacing.

His coat—heavy, black, worn at the elbows—he draped over the mirror’s door, more for convenience than superstition, he told himself. Still, he felt better with it there.

The drug box slid easily under the bed, between a few stray springs and the dust bunnies already claiming the floor. It fit snugly, tucked where no one would notice unless they were looking. The rest of his odds and ends—lighter, a busted old phone charger, two notebooks filled with messy handwriting and half-sketches of weird symbols—he crammed into the squeaky drawer of the end table. The thing protested with every inch, joints groaning like it was fighting back.

He stood up and stretched, then turned—

“Jesus—!”

Michael stood in the doorway.

Thin as a ghost, face expressionless. His sudden presence made Gerry jolt back a full step, heart hammering in his chest.

Michael flinched in response, raising his hands like he was the one who’d been startled. “Oh—sorry! I didn’t mean to—God, I’m sorry.”

Gerry let out a loud, breathy laugh, running a hand down his face. “Shit. No, it’s fine. I just didn’t hear you.”

Michael’s expression cracked into something sheepish. “I’m used to the floorboards. I know which ones not to step on.”

“Right. Of course you do,” Gerry said, huffing another little laugh. “That’s not unsettling at all.”

Michael grinned—just a little, just enough. “Sorry. Again.”

They stood there for a beat, the tension softening, turning into something closer to normal awkwardness. Then Michael tilted his head, eyes flicking to the room behind Gerry.

“I was going to ask,” he said slowly, “what your diet is like.”

Gerry blinked. “My diet ?”

Michael nodded, almost too earnestly. “Do you have any allergies? Or preferences? Religious restrictions? I don’t cook often but… maybe cooking for another person would help me remember how.”

There was something strange in the way he said it. Not that he wanted to cook for someone, but that he wanted to cook because someone was there. 

Gerry shrugged. “Uh… nothing too weird, I guess. I don’t eat pork much, not for any reason, I just don’t like it. I eat whatever’s cheap. I do instant noodles like it’s a food group.”

Michael nodded slowly, as if logging that away somewhere far more important than it warranted.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s helpful.”

“Didn’t realize rent included a meal plan,” Gerry joked.

Michael gave that soft little smile again. “It's been a while since I had a roommate.”

And then, without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hallway, his footsteps utterly silent.

By the time evening rolled in, the flat had settled into an almost too quiet kind of stillness. The sort that made Gerry itch for noise—music, traffic, anything —just to remind himself the world hadn’t fallen into some slow-motion dream.

They sat in the living room, takeaway cartons scattered on the battered coffee table between them. The couch sagged in the middle, and the cushions had that vaguely damp, thrift-store smell, but it beat eating alone in his room with that warped-ass mirror peeking from behind his coat.

The TV—an old, boxy thing with a curved glass screen and fake wood paneling—flickered dimly in the corner. It played some old black-and-white show, a man in a suit yelling at a telephone while dramatic music swelled. The antenna reception made the image shimmer at the edges like it was struggling to hold itself together. The volume was low, a scratchy mumble of voices and laughter that barely registered.

Gerry stabbed a piece of chicken with his chopsticks, chewing slowly, eyes half-focused on the TV. He wanted to ask questions— needed to, really. Michael was all shadows and soft-voiced riddles, and Gerry had a gnawing feeling that the more he ignored it, the deeper the weirdness would bury into the walls. The armoire. The mirrors. The feeling .

But just as he opened his mouth, Michael beat him to it.

“What brings you to London?” he asked, not looking up from his rice. His voice was soft, casual, but there was something too precise in the way he said it. Like he already knew Gerry wasn’t local and just wanted to hear him confirm it.

Gerry hesitated, the question catching him off guard.

“I… dunno,” he said finally, shrugging one shoulder. “Change of scenery, I guess.”

Michael hummed, a low note that could’ve meant anything.

“I grew up all over,” Gerry added. “My mum moved us around a lot. Never really stuck anywhere.”

He didn’t mean to say that much, but once it was out, it felt easier to keep going. “She died a couple years ago. After that I just… didn’t feel like stopping.”

Michael looked at him now. His eyes were pale but too dark around the edges, the kind of stare that felt like it moved through you.

“That makes sense,” he said.

“Does it?” Gerry asked, a bit sharper than intended.

Michael just nodded. “Sometimes the people who love us the wrong way still leave something behind. A kind of gravity.”

Gerry blinked. “Okay. That’s cryptic as shit.”

Michael actually laughed—small and unexpected, like the sound surprised even him. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be.”

“You’re just naturally spooky, huh?”

Michael gave a noncommittal shrug and went back to his rice.

Gerry leaned back against the couch, carton resting on his knee. He glanced over at the TV, now showing a group of children on a merry-go-round that didn’t seem to stop spinning. Black and white and washed out. Something about it unsettled him.

He didn’t look away as he asked, “So what about you ? What’s your story?”

Michael didn’t answer right away.

“I’ve lived here a long time,” he said eventually. “I don’t get out much. I don’t like to be around crowds. Or noise. Or places that don’t remember me.”

That last part hung in the air too long.

Gerry sat up. “You mean people that don’t remember you?”

Michael’s expression didn’t change. “No.”

They fell into silence again, except for the faint static buzz from the television and the rhythmic scrape of chopsticks against styrofoam.

Gerry cleared his throat. “The flat… it’s weird, right? Not just me?”

Michael looked at him again, slower this time. “It doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. That’s rare.”

“Okay, but what is it, then?”

Michael took another bite and chewed with the kind of focus that meant he wasn’t going to answer. At least not directly.

“I think it likes you,” he said finally. “Or maybe it’s just curious.”

“The flat is curious?”

Michael tilted his head, eyes reflecting the TV’s flickering grayscale light.

“Wouldn’t you be?”

Oh, Gerry was curious all right. 

That night Gerry laid in his new room. The covers felt like they’d been washed once, maybe twice, in the last decade—too stiff, too scratchy, too damn institutional . Gerry lay flat on his back, staring at the faint pattern of cracks in the ceiling above him, blanket pulled up to his chest like it might insulate him from the sheer weirdness embedded in the walls.

He scratched absently at the side of his neck and made a mental note: new bedding . Soon as possible. Something soft, something normal, maybe a throw blanket that didn’t smell like an attic.

Then he caught himself.

Normal bedding . To match your haunted-arse armoire and mirror that probably eats souls. Great job, Gerry. Really putting down roots in the crypt.

He sighed through his nose and rolled to one side, facing away from the mirror, the coat still hanging over it like a flimsy ward. Despite himself, curiosity burned low and hot in his stomach. The flat had its claws in him already, and Michael— Michael —was like a puzzle he couldn’t stop picking at.

Some people were weird. He knew that. Some people had trauma, or quirks, or just didn’t know how to people . But Michael wasn’t awkward the way other people were awkward. He was off-key in a way that sounded fine if you didn’t listen too closely. Like a song that sounds vaguely familiar but the lyrics are wrong.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, trying not to focus on the creaking pipes or the tick of the radiator.

Then he heard it.

Voices.

Muffled, low—talking. Michael’s voice, for sure, but the cadence was strange. Off. Like a one-sided conversation or a script being recited from memory. He strained his ears, trying to catch the words, but they blurred together, just out of reach.

Then came the humming.

Soft, tuneless, and childlike. Followed by a sound like scratching—something hard dragging over wood or wallpaper in slow, uneven lines.

Gerry sat up. Just a little.

The flat fell completely silent.

Dead, too dead.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it escaped all at once. He laid back down, rubbing his face.

Right. Tomorrow. Library .

He didn’t know much about the building—just the address and the general area. He’d passed a local library on the walk to the corner shop earlier; looked old, probably underfunded, probably perfect. If the flat had a history, it’d be in some dusty archive or forgotten municipal record. And Gerry had time. Time, and too many questions.

And while I’m at it , he thought grimly, I’m looking into Michael Shelley too .

He’d played it cool when they talked, smiled, even laughed. But the guy didn’t blink like a normal person. Didn’t move like one either. Gerry had seen a lot of weirdos in his life—drifters, cult burnouts, more than a few psych ward escapees—but Michael was starting to climb the ranks.

Maybe he’d dig up a hospital record. Maybe a missing person’s report. Or maybe he’d find nothing and Michael would turn out to be some rich shut-in whose family paid rent on a cursed flat so he wouldn’t chew on people in public.

Either way, Gerry had the itch now.

The kind that didn’t go away until you knew .

He pulled the scratchy blanket tighter over himself and tried to ignore the sound of the wind—or something like it—rustling faintly through the hall.

When Gerry woke, it was with the distinct, maddening sense that something had happened.

He didn’t dream—or at least not in any way he could grasp. No images, no sounds, just a sensation. A feeling . Like something cold and precise had been drawing invisible symbols across his skin. Sharp, but not painful. Almost gentle, in the way a scalpel might be if it didn’t break the skin.

He rubbed his arms beneath his shirt, but found no marks. No scratches. Nothing out of place. The mirror was still covered. The armoire closed. The coat hadn’t moved.

It was just your brain , he told himself. Residual stress. This place is weird. Michael’s weird. You’re wound up.

He dressed fast—black hoodie, faded jeans, boots still damp from the previous night’s rain. The book stayed on the end table. He slipped the drug box into his backpack, zipped it tight, and pulled the hood up over his greasy hair. Time to be productive. Make a little money. Poke around. Learn something he wasn’t supposed to.

He pushed the bedroom door open—

And stopped.

Michael was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor. A deck of cards was spread in a loose fan before him—tarot, maybe, but not any design Gerry recognized. The symbols were abstract, hand-drawn, all harsh angles and curves that felt more like equations than divination. Beside the cards were small trinkets: a broken wristwatch, a vial of something cloudy, a strip of faded red cloth, a small blue feather.

Michael’s long hair was tied back loosely, the ponytail trailing down his back in spirals. He wore a thin sweater that hung loose off one boney shoulder, and for once, for once , the man looked… human. Almost warm.

The early morning light had spilled in through the tall windows, slicing the flat in two with soft orange. It caught on the curve of Michael’s jaw, the edges of his lashes, turning him real in a way Gerry hadn’t seen before. Like he belonged in the room. Like he anchored it.

For one breath, Gerry just stared.

And then, remembering himself, he cleared his throat and spoke fast. “Heading out. Got errands.”

Michael looked up, blinking slowly like someone surfacing from underwater. “Oh. Right. Be safe.”

That strange sincerity again. Like Gerry was about to head into a war zone instead of Camden Market with a few wraps in his pocket.

“Yeah,” Gerry muttered. “You too. Don’t let the cards bite.”

Michael smiled faintly and looked down at the deck again.

Gerry didn’t linger.

The city woke up around him in shudders and groans—buses sighing at the curbs, street vendors dragging metal carts into place, the sharp hiss of coffee machines and the warm throb of life resuming its chaotic rhythm. The chill burned off with each hour, and Gerry moved like he always did—on the periphery.

It didn’t take long to find the right people. A few conversations, a couple handshakes in alleyways and quiet benches in back corners of cafés. Money exchanged, debts paid, new ones quietly growing like mold in the damp corners of people’s lives.

He didn’t feel great about it, but he didn’t feel bad either. Survival was never pretty.

By noon, he’d made a decent round. Enough to last another week. Maybe enough to start looking at those new bedsheets.

But first—the library.

It was old. Like really old.

The sign outside simply read: Municipal Archives & Lending Library , faded gold letters over dusty green paint. No graffiti, no broken windows, just the sort of neglected reverence that meant the place had always been there and probably always would be. The bell over the door jingled when he pushed it open.

Inside, it smelled like old paper, lemon cleaner, and the kind of quiet that demanded you behave. A woman with greying hair peered at him over the desk. Gerry offered her a polite nod and wandered past rows of warped shelving until he found the archives room, tucked behind a reading area that looked like it hadn’t changed since the ‘70s.

Dust clung to the blinds. The lights buzzed overhead.

He set his backpack down beside a table and cracked his knuckles.

“Alright. Let’s see what the hell I just moved into.”

The microfiche machine was older than Gerry, its hum a steady drone that vibrated through his fingers as he clicked through reel after reel of digitized local papers. He hadn’t used one since secondary school, and even then it was more for show than substance. But now he leaned into the glow of the small screen, nicotine gum stuck against his teeth, and his fingers smudged faint ink from the library’s archived notebooks as he scrawled notes in the margins of a sheet of paper.

The address turned up a few entries—nothing explosive.

In the late ’90s, the building had been bought by a housing development company and converted into six flats. Generic boilerplate: " Updated plumbing, fire-safe doors, historic character preserved." The usual gentrification bullshit. He'd even found an original blueprint for the building. Before that, it had been listed as a single dwelling, one of those old, stately homes on Wilberforce Road, probably owned by the same family for generations.

There was a fire in ’94—kitchen blaze, they guessed. Minimal damage. No casualties.

In the ‘80s, a woman—Eleanor Fisk—had died alone in the upstairs bedroom from a stroke. Her photo accompanied a short obituary: smiling, wiry white curls pinned back, the look of someone who'd spent her entire life quietly being overlooked. Apparently she'd lived there for decades.

Gerry made note of her name, just in case. But none of it felt like a smoking gun. Nothing screamed this flat is haunted or your roommate is a time-displaced banshee . Just a fire, a death, a handful of real estate transfers.

So he kept going.

He clicked back further. 1970s. 1960s. Fewer mentions. The house fell off the public record for a stretch, probably changed hands off the books or simply wasn’t newsworthy. He skipped further—back into the 1940s. The war years. Rationing. Blitz damage two streets over, but not here. The house stood untouched. Nothing.

Then he hit the 1920s.

A small article in a local social column, nothing more than a paragraph, caught his eye:

> “ Dr. and Mrs. Shelley hosted a modest salon this weekend at their Wilberforce home. In attendance were several esteemed academics and a number of artists and poets, among them the elusive Mr. Frederick Von Closen, who read from his latest collection. Guests described the evening as ‘intimate’ and ‘impressionably strange.’ Tea was served.”

Gerry’s eyes narrowed.

Shelley .

Coincidence, maybe. Common enough name. But…

The print blurred a little as he leaned closer. The name “Michael” wasn’t mentioned, but the address was exact .

Same house.

He scribbled it down anyway. Then kept digging.

1910s. 1900s. The house had belonged to the Shelley family for at least sixty years, the surname popping up in various columns—donations to local charities, academic contributions, occasional mentions of the patriarch being affiliated with some sort of “ esoteric society .”

Another snippet from 1904 gave him pause:

> “...concern grows over the Shelley residence, as neighbors report strange visitors in the night and unexplained noises. Local constables declined to investigate further, citing lack of evidence and the Shelley family’s longstanding reputation. Rumors of séances and ‘curious rites’ remain unconfirmed.”

That was more like it.

He copied that one word-for-word.

He was halfway through the 1890s when something else surfaced.

A notice of a missing child —a seven-year-old girl who vanished on the property while visiting with her mother. The article was brief, grim.

> “ Despite thorough searches of the Shelley estate and surrounding area, no trace has been found of Miss Evelyn Hart. Police are baffled. The girl was last seen playing in the upstairs parlor.”

The upstairs parlor.

That was now the living room.

Where Michael had been sitting this morning with his cards.

Gerry leaned back in the hard chair, running a hand through his hair. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air smelled like dust and old glue, but suddenly felt heavier. Denser .

There were no headlines. No big bloody scandal. But something about that house— his flat—had been drawing attention for over a century. Not bad attention, necessarily. But weird . Always weird.

And the name Shelley kept showing up.

If it was coincidence, it was a persistent one.

Gerry shut the notebook and stood, stretching until his back popped. He glanced at the wall clock—late afternoon already. He’d need food. Maybe more cigarettes. But before that…

Michael Shelley , he thought, he was going to find out if that name was on any census, police report, hospital log, or obit.

Because if Michael was a Shelley—and had always been a Shelley—then Gerry had just moved in with someone, or something , with roots that went far deeper than he’d expected.

Gerry stepped away from the microfiche machine, his notebook packed with half-legible scribbles—dates, addresses, and names that scratched at the base of his skull like a splinter too deep to pull. He found a quiet alcove in the library’s archives room, where the dust gathered thicker on the edges of shelves and the air was heavier with age. A nearby radiator ticked faintly like it was trying to remember how to function.

He opened the census logs next. Thick tomes stacked in labeled crates. They smelled like dried mold and worn cloth, pages crisp and yellowing at the edges.

Michael Shelley .

He started with the most recent census—2011—and worked backwards.

Nothing.

No Michael Shelley at his address. No Michael Shelley in Camden. A few Shelleys elsewhere in London, none of them his Michael. A teenager. A pensioner. A Michael G. Shelley in Barking who died in 2008.

Nothing in 2001, either.

His pen tapped against the page as his eyes narrowed.

He flipped back to 1991.

Then 1981.

And in 1971—

There.

Shelley, Michael F . Age: 20. Occupation: " Archive Assistant ." Address: Wilberforce Road, Camden.

20 years old . In 1971.

Gerry stared at the entry, then ran his thumb along the column again. Maybe it was a coincidence. Another Michael Shelley. A relative. But at the same address?

Then another entry in 1951:

Shelley, M . Age: 20. Archive Assistant. 

The same address. Again.

And even earlier—

1911 census:

Shelley, Michael . Age: 20. Archive Assistant . Same street. Same house.

Exactly the same age. 

“Fucking hell,” Gerry muttered under his breath, voice swallowed by the walls.

Each twenty-year span, the same name. Same role. Same man?

The rational part of his brain reached for explanations—family tradition, father to son, coincidence of naming. But his stomach told him something different. Cold and tight. A memory stirred, one he usually tried not to think about.

His mother’s bookshop.

Tucked between a bakery and a pawn shop in Amsterdam, the place had always smelled like must and lavender. She never let him stay during “appointments.” Clients—if you could even call them that—would shuffle in with eyes that never quite met his. Dressed wrong for the weather. Accents slippery and hard to pin. They’d ask for specific titles, most in languages Gerry couldn’t read: Dutch, German, Latin. Sometimes books that didn’t even have titles—just symbols embossed into cracked leather.

They’d disappear into the back with his mother for hours. Sometimes the lights would dim. Sometimes the temperature would drop. He’d asked, once, what they were doing.

“They’re looking for things,” she had said, brushing his hair from his forehead with fingers that smelled like candle wax and old pages. “Same as me.”

“But what things?” he’d pressed.

“Old things,” she’d whispered. “Real things. Things that don’t go away just because the world forgets them.”

He’d thought she was mad. Still did, most days. The kind of woman who left food offerings at crossroads and whispered in dead languages when she thought no one was listening. She had been distant , obsessed, always scribbling in her own strange book, the other one, the one she buried with herself when the cancer took her.

But maybe she hadn’t been entirely wrong.

He jotted down the census years—1911, 1951, 1971. All showing a Michael Shelley, always 24.

Then a name floated back into his mind, from the clipping earlier:

Mr. Frederick von Closen . One of the guests at the Shelley salon. One of the poets. Something about it—it itched.

He turned back to the microfiche and typed the name into the archive’s clunky digital index.

Only one result came up:

A death notice, dated 1923.

> "Mr. Frederick von Closen, known poet and mystic, passed away in what authorities believe was a tragic accident. He was discovered drowned in the ornamental lake of the Shelley estate by a groundskeeper early Tuesday morning. The body showed no signs of struggle. His final manuscript remains unrecovered."

Gerry leaned back in his seat, heart thudding.

A man attends a salon at the Shelley house in 1920.

He dies there three years later.

The host, possibly Michael.

The same Michael.

Gerry flipped the page of his notebook and scrawled in bold letters:

WHO IS MICHAEL SHELLEY?

He stared at the words.

Then closed the book, tucked it into his backpack with the box, and stood up. He needed air. Coffee. A line of coke. Something. 

Gerry walked the city until his legs ached, until the weight of the library findings had dulled just enough for him to breathe again without feeling like something was curling around his lungs.

He didn’t go far—just wandered in circles around Camden, ducking into side streets and forgotten corners, smoking a little, thinking too much. He still had the names written down in his notebook. Frederick von Closen. Eleanor Fisk. Evelyn Hart. And over and over: Michael Shelley.

It didn’t add up. It couldn’t. But the paper didn’t lie.

And the flat sure as hell wasn’t normal.

When the late afternoon sun began to sink behind the grey rooftops, Gerry made his way back. He wasn’t sure what he expected—a cold echoing silence, Michael half-phased through a wall, more cryptic humming and flickering lights—but instead, when he opened the door, something completely unexpected greeted him.

Warmth.

And the smell of garlic.

The door, as usual, was unlocked. The hinges didn't creak as they should have as he stepped into the flat and shrugged off his jacket.

From the kitchen came the sound of quiet clattering—metal against ceramic, the low hiss of something frying. Light spilled in from the tall window, golden and soft, making the dull tiles look nearly warm.

Michael stood by the stove, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, long hair tied back in a loose knot. A saucepan steamed in front of him, and he was stirring something that looked—shockingly—like actual food. Vegetables sautéed, something creamy bubbled nearby, maybe potatoes or rice.

It was mundane. Strangely, beautifully mundane.

He looked, again, human. Not some cryptid puppet draped in too much skin. Not a walking statue with glassy eyes.

Just a tall, lanky guy making dinner.

Michael glanced up as Gerry walked in and gave a smile that, for once, didn’t make Gerry feel like he was on the edge of vertigo.

“Hey,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I didn’t know when you’d be back. Thought I’d make something.”

Gerry blinked. “Uh… yeah. I’m… here.”

Smooth.

Michael chuckled softly, turning back to the pan. “It’s not much. Carrot and chickpea curry. I didn’t have a lot in the cupboard, but I think it’ll be edible.”

Gerry hovered in the doorway, eyes narrowed like the illusion might shatter if he got too close. “You cook now?”

Michael shrugged, stirring. “Sometimes. The muscle memory kicks in.”

“…Muscle memory?”

A pause. Then: “I mean, I’ve done it before. Somewhere.”

Gerry frowned. “That’s… specific and vague at the same time.”

Michael glanced at him over his shoulder, a small amused twist to his lips. “Isn’t that just memory?”

And just like that, the moment felt thinner again.

Not gone. But watched.

Gerry moved to sit on the stool at the kitchen counter, eyeing the food cautiously. “So, this just… what? Hit you today? ‘Gonna make a wholesome meal and pretend I’m not a weirdo who lays out cursed cards at 7am?’”

Michael’s face was still turned toward the stove, but his shoulders shook in a quiet laugh.

“Even weirdos get hungry,” he said. “And you seemed like the type to live off pot noodles and caffeine. Figured we could do better.”

Gerry didn’t answer. His fingers traced the edge of the countertop, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he kept hearing the name:

Michael Shelley.
1971. 1951. 1931. 1911.

All 24. All the same.

He looked up again. Watched Michael sprinkle something into the pan—salt, maybe. Herbs. It didn’t matter. He moved with a casual grace that didn’t match the version of him from yesterday. Not quite alien, not quite familiar. Like someone wearing a well-practiced face.

And yet, today…

He looked alive.

“So…” Gerry said finally, voice low, almost testing. “You ever think about who lived here before you?”

Michael stirred once, then paused.

“I try not to,” he said. “But sometimes they think about me.”

He turned, setting the spoon down gently. “Hungry?”

Dinner was edible—more than edible, actually. The curry was fragrant, the rice a little sticky but properly cooked, and Michael served it with quiet, practiced efficiency, like he’d done this a thousand times before for people who didn’t stay long.

They sat at the narrow kitchen table, chipped laminate surface between them, the clink of forks and occasional scrape of chair legs filling the silence. The TV in the living room still mumbled softly, too far away to make out.

Gerry watched Michael from across his plate, still chewing, still evaluating.

“You always live here?” he asked casually, poking at a chunk of carrot.

Michael didn’t look up right away. “Mm,” he hummed thoughtfully, as if tasting the question on his tongue before answering. “Yes. And no.”

Gerry raised an eyebrow. “Helpful.”

Michael did glance at him then, pale green eyes catching the kitchen light just right to reflect it in a way that made Gerry think of camera flashes and things caught too suddenly in the dark. “I mean I’ve lived in this place before. The shape changes. The paint. The furniture. But the house remembers.”

Gerry paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “So… what, you’re saying the building has memory?”

Michael tilted his head. “Don’t you?”

Gerry snorted. “I’ve done a lot of things to forget most of mine.”

Michael didn’t laugh, but he smiled faintly. “I think this house is better at remembering than most people. Even if you gut it, change the walls, strip the wallpaper—it keeps the echo. Some houses want to forget. This one doesn’t.”

Gerry mulled that over between bites. “You talk about it like it’s alive.”

Michael shrugged. “It was. Parts of it still are.”

He said it with no drama, no flair. Like he was commenting on the weather.

Gerry leaned back in his chair a little, eyes narrowing. “So you do know something. About it. The place.”

Michael held his gaze for a moment too long.

Then his eyes shifted.

Not in color. Not in light. Just… focus . Like something had slipped forward from behind them, peeking out, pressing just behind the iris. A slow, lazy awareness rising like a tide.

He smiled again, still polite, still warm. But different now. Sharper. Touched by something Gerry didn’t have the language for.

“I know of it,” Michael said slowly. “But there’s a difference between knowing what a place and knowing why a place is.”

That change—so small, so precise—it turned in Gerry’s stomach like a trick knife. Dangerous. Familiar. Compelling .

He didn’t press.

Didn’t ask what Michael meant or what he really knew.

Because if he did, he’d fall right into it.

Instead, he played it cool. Bit back the questions forming like static at the base of his throat and nodded once. “Weird way of putting it.”

Michael blinked, and the tension in the air gave a little. Like whatever had surfaced had slipped back down. Still present. Still watching. But willing, for now, to let him breathe.

“You get used to weird, living here,” Michael said, tone light again. “It’s not so bad once it knows you.”

Gerry hummed around a sip of water. “That supposed to be comforting?”

“Depends on how badly you want to be known.”

That one landed heavier than he expected.

Gerry didn’t reply, not at first. He finished eating in silence, watching the way the light curved around the edges of Michael’s silhouette. The dull ache in his gut didn’t feel like fear—not quite. It felt like falling forward toward something he couldn’t name.

He thought about the census records. About the name repeated every generation like a ritual.

About the notebook he hadn’t brought up. Yet.

About the way Michael’s pupils had dilated when he spoke of the house. Not from drugs. Not from light.

From something else .

And despite all of it, despite the itch in his skin and the quiet pull in his chest that screamed run —

Gerry wanted more.

It was strange—how fast weird became normal.

3 weeks slipped by, slow and syrupy, stretching into something soft around the edges. Like the flat existed just slightly outside of linear time. The days blurred, but Gerry could mark them by the rhythm Michael kept.

Every morning—without fail—Michael woke before Gerry and began his ritual. He didn’t always see it in full, just heard the soft creak of the floorboards in the living room, the shuffle of cards, the faint ring of a bell or the hollow clink of glass. Once, he caught the end of it: Michael on his knees before the mirror in the hall, forehead just grazing the glass, eyes closed, whispering.

Some mornings, Michael would greet him like nothing had happened—cheerful, even chatty, offering coffee like they were two guys living in a sitcom flat. Other mornings, Michael was still in it —half-there, walking like he was moving underwater, his voice soft and echoing as if it was passing through him instead of from him.

It was like talking to night and day.

And Gerry, against all odds, liked both of them.

He’d found himself listening harder, watching the small cues: the way Michael’s eyes moved, where he placed his hands when he spoke, how still he went when his mind wandered off. There was something… intimate about it. Not in a romantic way—not yet, Gerry didn't think he was that desperate—but in the way a mystery turns into a habit, and a habit starts to feel like home.

Which was, of course, completely fucking insane.

Still, Gerry bought new bedding. Hung up an old flat sheet over the mirror doors of the armoire like he was warding off some folkloric evil. It helped—barely. He could still feel it behind the fabric. Like the mirror knew it was being covered. Like it resented it.

But he was getting used to the rest of the flat. The smell. The creaks. The barely-there hum that lived in the floorboards.

And the scratching.

Every night, without fail, sometime between eleven at night and four in the morning, he heard it. Just for a minute or two: a long, slow drag across the wall between their rooms. Not frantic. Not clawing. Just steady. Measured. Like someone drawing something with a dull nail. Every now and then, it came with Michael’s voice—soft, murmuring, too muffled to understand. Always alone. Always with the lights off.

Gerry stopped being scared of it after the fourth night.

It was almost nostalgic.

This was what he was raised with, after all. Shadows that didn’t behave. Whispering things. Rituals. His mother’s voice reciting dead languages into jars of saltwater. Customers who didn’t blink enough.

He hated it back then. The isolation, the madness. The books she wouldn’t let him read. The way she knew things but never told him.

Now? It felt like muscle memory.

Sometimes, in the quiet dark, Gerry even welcomed the weirdness. It meant he hadn’t drifted off into some boring, gentrified version of life. It meant something was happening.

He hadn’t pushed Michael much—not outside of casual things.

They talked about music. Michael liked folk records and ambient soundscapes. Gerry preferred punk and older indie tapes.

Michael once mentioned he had a dog as a child. A black spaniel named Victor.

When asked where he grew up, Michael said the flat on the first floor. That stuck in Gerry’s mind. Same building. Same address. Different unit.

He hadn’t said when.

Some nights, Gerry felt the patterns again—shapes traced along his arms, his ribs, the backs of his knees. Always light. Never painful. Once, he woke up with his shirt bunched around his shoulders, but no sign of anything else.

He started popping a couple of pills before bed—just something to dull the edge, calm the nervous system. It worked. He slept deeper. The tracing became background noise.

Sometimes he missed it.

It had rhythm now, like breath.

Whatever it was… it was learning him.

And Gerry couldn’t stop himself from letting it.

One morning, Gerry blinked himself awake to the usual weight of the blanket, the soft filtered light seeping in through the edge of the curtains, and the subtle chill in the air that told him the radiator hadn’t kicked in yet. Normally, he could hear the faint rustle of Michael’s rituals in the next room—the slide of cards, glass tapping glass, a low hum that sometimes didn’t even sound human.

But today—nothing.

No shuffling steps. No murmured invocations. No smell of incense or burnt coffee grounds.

Just stillness.

He sat up, rubbing the side of his face, and let the sheet fall off the mirror. For a second, he caught his reflection in the glass beneath before he remembered to look away. He re-hung the fabric with a pinched sigh, pulled on a t-shirt and his usual layered hoodie, and stepped into the hall.

The living room was empty. The throw blanket Michael always left crumpled on the end of the couch was neatly folded. The odd totems he arranged around the coffee table were gone—no cards, no bowl of water, no feathers or tokens.

Even the warped spot on the old rug where he usually knelt looked undisturbed.

Gerry padded into the hallway, bare feet soundless on the wood. “Michael?” he called, voice low, cautious.

Nothing.

The kitchen was still and dim, counters clean, mugs stacked like someone had wiped everything down the night before.

That wasn’t right.

Michael never tidied up at night. He’d told Gerry he liked waking to the mess—to see what the cards “left behind.”

A tight knot formed low in Gerry’s stomach.

His eyes slid to the end of the hallway.

Michael’s bedroom door was shut.

It never was.

Not in the mornings.

Gerry stepped closer, the floorboards protesting softly under his weight. He stood in front of the door for a long moment, listening. His breath slowed. His ears strained.

Silence.

Not even scratching.

“…Michael?” he tried again.

Still nothing.

He chewed his lip, heart ticking a little faster. The walls felt like they were leaning in, just a touch. The air had that heavy, static-coated weight of a thunderstorm that hadn’t quite broken yet.

Curiosity prickled at him like needles behind the eyes.

Michael was always in the same places every morning. Even when he wasn’t himself . Even when he was floating through whatever uncanny current tugged him under. This absence wasn’t just unusual—it was wrong .

He stared at the door.

He could open it. Just a quick look. Make sure Michael hadn’t slipped into a coma or disappeared into a Lovecraftian portal. He could even frame it as concern if he got caught.

His hand settled on the knob.

Cool. Solid.

He turned it slowly.

The door creaked open slowly.

Gerry stood on the threshold, breath caught in his throat, waiting—for what, he wasn’t sure. Something to lurch at him from the shadows? Some horrible smell? A crack in the air where reality had folded in on itself?

Instead, the room looked… normal .

Lived-in. Almost warm.

The bed was a riot of color—blankets in deep reds, rich oranges, mismatched greens, all tangled into each other like a half-remembered dream. The pillows were similarly chaotic. A faded green one, one with a paisley print, one that might’ve been velvet once. The sheets were unmade, slept in.

There were framed prints on the walls—generic landscapes, like someone had half-heartedly tried to pretend they liked hiking. A misty lake. A mountain range. A field of windblown grass. Comforting, distant, anonymous.

A record player rested in the corner on a small stand, stacked with albums that looked well-used—Nick Drake, Nico, something in German. Next to it, a leaning tower of old books and cassettes, a flickering candle stub in a dish filled with ash.

A cluttered desk sat beneath the window. Covered in cards—Gerry recognized them as the same ones Michael always used. Trinkets, stones, bits of string, bones maybe. A collage of objects that meant something only to him.

Everything looked completely, eerily mundane.

Except for the spiral.

It was huge.

Drawn in chalk across the far wall, in long, steady strokes—almost elegant in its geometry. Black and grey swirled in layers, dense and almost shimmering at the center. The shape moved subtly with the light, as though the lines were still soft, still ready to shift at any moment. It took up nearly the whole expanse, curling and curling and curling in on itself.

Gerry’s throat went dry.

He stepped in, eyes locked on it.

It wasn’t just chalk.

He could see—faintly—where the spiral matched something else. Something behind it. The wall had been scratched . Deep, looping lines beneath the chalk. Like claws or a knife had dragged through the plaster in those same hypnotic, nauseating curves.

The spiral was drawn on his shared wall.

The same wall as the armoire.

Gerry didn’t know how long he stared.

The room was still.

No sound. No air movement. Just the weight of the spiral pressing gently, insistently, on his senses like a hand over the back of his neck.

There was something familiar about it—familiar in the way déjà vu tastes, or how a nightmare feels right before you realize you’ve had it before.

Something about it stirred old instincts. Childhood memories of his mother muttering warnings under her breath, of books she wouldn’t let him open, of nights he swore the walls were breathing.

She’d never let him draw spirals.

Not even doodles.

“Bad shape,” she used to say. “It doesn’t end.”

He backed up slowly, gaze flicking over the rest of the room.

He whispered the name under his breath. “Michael…”

Nothing.

Gerry couldn’t help himself.

He stepped further in, quiet like a thief, though he wasn’t sure if it was Michael he was hiding from—or the spiral watching from the wall.

He skirted the edge of the room, careful not to brush anything that looked fragile, and drifted toward the shelf above the record player.

It was arranged like a museum exhibit.

Not like Michael’s ritual desk, with its chaotic spread of cards and bones and thread, but like a deliberate curation of memory. Antique trinkets: a rusted pocket watch with a cracked face; a silver spoon with an engraving so worn it was almost illegible; a small porcelain doll with one glass eye missing; a pressed flower between two panes of old, bubbled glass.

Each item was arranged with intent .

But not for ritual.

For display . 

Like they were tokens. Offerings. Evidence of lives that had happened .

A low breath slipped from Gerry’s mouth.

He moved to the desk.

There were journals—some stacked, some wedged between towers of books, some tucked into the drawers below. Leather-bound, fabric-bound, spiral-bound. All different kinds. Some pristine, others warped from damp or age. One had a cracked spine and pages so yellowed they looked brittle.

He opened a few.

They were all Michael’s handwriting. The same handwriting, spanning across decades.

Some in ink, some in pencil. Some pages were covered in looping, lyrical observations—bits of poetry, dreams, sketches of eyes and spirals and birds. Others were clinical: names, dates, notes about rituals, about the house.

Some entries were short:

> April 3, 1971

> It’s getting closer. I think this time I might not be able to hold it back. 

Other entries were just… missing .

Pages torn clean out, jagged edges fluttering like exposed nerve endings.

He flipped through them, feeling the weight of years pressing on his shoulders, the quiet, desperate repetition of trying to hold onto selfhood.

Then he found one.

A notebook dated 1989–1990.

Only three entries. The last one ended mid-sentence.

> January 3rd, 1990 .

> It spit me back out. I don't have the strength to try again. I don't want to hold it back anymore. I don't want to start all over again. Frederick was right–

After that, nothing.

Nothing dated 1991 or beyond.

Gerry frowned, memory clicking like tumblers falling into place.

The pattern.

Every twenty years, a Michael Shelley.

1911. 1931. 1951. 1971.

And then—

Nothing.

No 1991.

He’d checked. He knew he had.

And even worse—if the pattern had held, if the ritual continued, then there should be a Michael that appeared in 2011 .

But he’d found no record . No census listing. No mention in local birth announcements. No school records. No missing persons.

No archive assistant. 

There was a gap.

A break in the chain.

And whatever Michael he was living with now—he wasn’t from 2011. He wasn’t from 1991 either.

Which meant either the pattern had stopped…

…or something else had filled the space.

Gerry let the journal slip shut, his breath sharp and cold in his throat.

He looked back at the chalk spiral on the wall.

And for the briefest second—it didn’t feel like chalk anymore.

It felt wet .

Gerry backed away from the desk with a sudden urgency, the notebook still warm from his hands, the facts tumbling through his brain like jagged glass.

No Michael in 1991. No child in 2011. No explanation. Just the spiral.

The heavy thud of his heartbeat pulsed in his ears as he turned on his heel and left the room.

He didn’t close the door.

Didn’t dare look back.

The hallway felt narrower somehow, too long, the ceiling just a little too low. Like the space was stretching with him, reacting to his panic like a muscle twitching beneath skin.

He stumbled and—

“Gerry?”

He almost smacked right into him.

Michael stood there, barefoot and quiet in a soft grey shirt and loose pants, a mug of tea in his hand. His hair was down around his shoulders, damp like he’d just stepped out of the shower. His head tilted with gentle concern, the way someone might look at a friend who’d been caught crying.

He looked— normal.

But that only made it worse.

Gerry jerked back slightly, breath sharp, pulse still racing. “Jesus Christ—!”

Michael blinked, startled. “Did something happen?”

Gerry’s eyes scanned him quickly, searching for a tell, something to betray that he knew what Gerry had just seen. But there was nothing. Just the usual serene, distant Michael, with the kind of worried look that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You look pale,” Michael said softly, stepping forward. “Are you alright? Did you have a bad dream?”

Gerry shook his head once, then again, trying to reset himself. “No—no, I just—just got dizzy, I guess.”

Michael squinted, then held the mug out toward him. “You should sit. Drink something.”

The scent of chamomile hit Gerry like a slap to the face.

He stared at the mug. Then at Michael’s fingers wrapped around it. Solid. Real.

He took it without thinking, just to have something to do with his hands. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“You’re shaking.” 

“Didn’t sleep well,” Gerry lied. “Think I’m coming down with something.”

Michael’s eyes searched his face, slow and unreadable. Not suspicious. Not accusing. Just… quietly observing.

“Do you want me to make something?” he asked. “I could put on some rice. Or toast.” Michael placed a cold but gentle hand to Gerry's forehead. 

Gerry’s throat felt like it was full of cotton. “No. I just need to sit down.”

Michael nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. “I’ll be in the living room. If you need anything.”

He said it kindly.

Like he meant it.

And that— that —unnerved Gerry more than anything else.

Because either Michael was a master liar…

Or he really, truly didn’t know what Gerry had just uncovered.

Or worse—

He did.

And he was pretending he didn’t.

Gerry walked past him, clutching the mug like a lifeline, and sank into the kitchen chair, heart still hammering behind his ribs.

He sat with the tea until it was cold, he'd barely sipped it before he decided he was going to go out looking for jobs. Gerry had said he was going to do that the day before and he needed something to clear his mind. 

Michael told him to bundle up, genuinely concerned for his health. It made Gerry’s stomach flip. 

The cold outside helped—at least a little.

The kind of chill that sank into your bones whether you wanted it to or not, numbing everything just enough to keep your thoughts from racing too fast. Gerry wandered the streets for hours, a manila folder of half-assed résumés tucked under one arm. He ducked into cafés, newsagents, corner shops—places with “help wanted” signs taped to their windows or crooked above tills.

He asked for applications, filled them out.

Smiled when he had to.

Said all the right things.

But his mind never left the spiral.

It sat at the center of his thoughts, coiled and waiting, just like the chalk drawing on the wall behind Michael’s bed. The wall that kissed up against the armoire in his room. It was all tangled together now—Michael, the spiral, the vanished Michaels from ’91 and 2011, the absence of a cycle that was supposed to be endless.

The unease crawled in his ribs all day like a second heartbeat.

He didn’t want to go home.

But he had to.

Even if just to see if Michael had changed.

Even if just to look him in the eyes and see if the shape was moving behind them.

—

When he opened the flat door, the smell of curry hit him again—different this time. Thai, maybe. Something with lemongrass and coconut milk. Sweet, earthy. Normal . 

Michael was in the kitchen, barefoot again, stirring something on the stove like nothing had changed.

And maybe for him… nothing had.

“Hey,” he said without turning. “You were gone a while. Find anything promising?”

Gerry peeled his jacket off with slow fingers. “A couple interviews, maybe.”

Michael hummed. “You don’t sound convinced.”

Gerry grunted, setting the folder of applications on the counter. “Yeah, well, enthusiasm’s not my strong suit.”

Michael chuckled. “Maybe that’s why I like you.”

It slipped out too easily.

Gerry didn’t answer right away. Just blinked at the back of Michael’s head. He wanted to read him, scrutinize him, but all he saw was a man calmly seasoning a pot of rice like he hadn’t spent the night talking to walls.

Dinner was good. Frustratingly good. Comforting in a way that made Gerry more suspicious than grateful.

They talked.

Not about anything important—just music again, films, the idea of going to an art museum sometime (“ Not one with spirals ,” Gerry had said dryly, and Michael only smiled, unreadable).

Later, they sat on the couch.

Michael had pulled out a battered old VHS tape of Wings of Desire . It was grainy, slow, poetic in that way that made your chest ache if you let it. The soft hiss of the tape filled the quiet between them.

And Michael sat closer than he had before.

Not touching him—but close. Legs angled in. Shoulders tilted just enough that Gerry could feel the ghost of his presence along his side.

It was weird.

Not bad.

Just off .

Because Gerry felt it. That pull. That warmth. That subtle thing that wasn’t quite desire, wasn’t quite trust, but something . Some dumb part of him even liked it.

And all the while, inside his chest, he held the secret like a stone under his tongue.

The spiral. The missing names. The scratched wall on the other side of the the armoire.

What the fuck are you? he thought, glancing at Michael out of the corner of his eye.

But he didn’t say it.

Couldn’t.

Because the line between romance and horror was already too blurred.

And Michael was still just sitting there—soft expression, tired eyes, smiling faintly like the world wasn’t bending sideways around them.

Eventually, the tape wound to its end with a soft mechanical whirrr and then a heavy click . The TV screen fizzed to grey static, painting the dark room in flickering shadows.

Michael didn’t move at first. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, blinking slowly like he’d just come out of a trance. Gerry had been half-watching him the entire time, trying to make sense of him, of this—of everything.

Then Michael stood, quiet and fluid as ever. He reached for the VHS remote to shut off the screen, leaving them in near-darkness, save for the faint spill of light from the hallway.

Gerry shifted to stand too, unsure whether he’d try and say something, or if he’d just escape to the half-comfort of his bed and the pills waiting in the nightstand drawer.

But then—Michael turned back toward him.

He reached down. Just a casual, lingering gesture.

And with the lightest touch of his fingernail, he traced a small shape along the back of Gerry’s hand.

A curl.

A spiral.

“Goodnight, Gerry,” Michael said softly. Kindly. Like it was nothing.

Gerry froze.

Everything in his body stilled, breath catching halfway in his chest.

Because he knew that touch.

Every night for the past month—no matter what state he’d fallen asleep in, no matter how drugged or dreamless—he’d felt that same light, deliberate sensation. Not from the inside of a dream, but on his skin. Patterns traced softly, intimately, like someone learning him inch by inch.

And now here it was again. Michael's nail.

Gerry looked up, eyes locking with Michael’s.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask.

Because if he asked, Michael might answer.

And he didn’t know if he was ready for that.

Michael only smiled, the barest curve of his mouth. His eyes, as always, gave away nothing .

He turned, walking slowly down the hall, his steps soft, almost reverent.

The door to his bedroom clicked shut.

Gerry sat motionless, heart pounding like something was trying to claw its way out from his ribs. That light, delicate spiral burned on the back of his hand—not hot, not painful—just known .

And suddenly, the weight of the secret he’d been carrying didn’t feel like something he was hiding anymore.

It felt like something Michael had given him.

Something he was meant to find.

Gerry hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

He’d fought it.

Lay stiff under the sheets, staring at the dim fabric-draped mirror like it might come to life on its own. His head buzzed from the sleeping pills, but adrenaline fought back in waves—sweaty palms, jittering nerves. He listened, just like he had every night for the past month.

Michael’s murmuring voice.

The low hum.

The scratching—long and deliberate against the shared wall.

It had become background noise, a lullaby of horror he had grown used to.

Tonight, it wasn’t comforting.

Tonight, it felt like a countdown.

Eventually, the pills pulled him under.

But when he woke, it was still dark.

Too dark.

The room felt suffocatingly still. His eyes opened slowly, dry and heavy. He tried to shift his weight, to sit up, to even blink hard —

But he couldn’t move.

Not a muscle.

Not even to scream.

His breath stopped in his throat, shallow and silent. Panic bloomed like a cold flower in his chest. Sleep paralysis. He knew this feeling. He remembered it.

It had happened when he was a kid, after touching something ancient in his mother’s shop. A coin sealed in a cracked jar. A bowl with carvings he couldn’t read. A book wrapped in linen. Every time, the same thing: he woke but couldn’t move, and something came to visit.

He hadn’t had it in years.

Now, here it was again.

Gerry’s gaze flicked, barely, to the side—just enough to see the edge of the room from the corner of his eye.

The armoire.

Its door was cracked open.

It hadn’t been like that when he fell asleep.

He knew it hadn’t.

The creak came next.

So slow.

So soft.

Then movement—barely perceptible at first. A tall shape, stepping out from the shadow like it had been waiting. Thin and precise, too smooth in the limbs. It moved like it had studied how humans walk, but hadn’t quite nailed the rhythm.

It looked like Michael.

Tall. Pale. Long hair hanging damp around the face.

But it wasn’t Michael.

The limbs were too long.

The torso too narrow, the head tilted too far, like it had too many vertebrae in its neck. Its hands curled backward at the wrist before they flexed into the shape of fingers.

And it didn’t walk.

It glided.

It passed the edge of the bed.

Then crawled on top of him.

Weightless.

But solid.

Like fog made of bone.

Its hands came to rest—gently, almost lovingly—on either side of Gerry’s head. They were wrong. Too many joints. Too soft at the edges. Fingers like strands of black ink dipped in something old.

Then it leaned in.

The face was not a face—just the echo of Michael’s features, stretched into something unreadable. The mouth was a smudge. The eyes bottomless.

It licked up Gerry’s face in a long, slow drag of something wet and cold.

Then pressed its mouth—if that’s what it was—right to his ear.

And spoke.

“Set me free.”

“I’m close.”

“Set me free.”

“The veil is thin.”

“Let me out.”

“Your great-grandfather tried before.”

“Finish what he couldn’t.”

The voice was a hiss and a whisper, too many voices stacked on top of one another. Male, female, child, ancient—echoing in ways that didn’t obey time.

And then—

The spiral.

Gerry felt it being traced down his arms, his chest, his ribs. Not cut. Not burned. Just drawn.

With reverence.

With hunger.

With expectation.

His whole body shook under the weight of it, even though he couldn’t move.

The figure leaned back, crawling across his body in reverse—spiderlike, seamless, grinning without lips.

It slipped back toward the armoire.

And disappeared inside.

When Gerry finally gasped awake, he shot up in bed drenched in sweat, lungs desperate for air.

The room was dark.

But the armoire door was wide open.

The sheet he’d draped over the mirror lay crumpled on the floor.

And drawn into the condensation on the glass, as if traced by a fingertip:

A spiral. 

Gerry stood in the bathroom, face damp from splash after splash of cold water. He stared into the mirror like it might accuse him. But there was nothing. No spiral. No figure standing behind him. Just his own tired, pale reflection.

Sleep paralysis, he told himself again. A bad one. A leftover from his childhood. He’d been primed for it—between the journals, the missing names, the chalk spiral, the— thing —he thought he saw. His brain was pulling the strings. It had to be. That was the only explanation that let him breathe.

But still—

As he stepped out of his room, he found himself looking at the armoire like it might blink .

Michael was in the living room, cross-legged in the exact same place he always sat during his morning ritual. The familiar mess of cards and trinkets was spread before him in careful disorder—just chaotic enough to look natural, but Gerry had come to recognize the pattern beneath it all.

Michael looked up and smiled. His hair was loose and fell over one eye in a soft wave. “Morning,” he said, bright but not too bright. “You slept in.”

“Yeah,” Gerry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Michael tilted his head but didn’t press. He just offered that same small smile—the one that felt like a lullaby wrapped in skin. “Dreams?”

“Something like that.”

A pause. The cards stilled between Michael’s fingers. “Then it’s good timing,” he said, standing up with a fluid, graceful motion. “I was thinking we should go out today.”

Gerry blinked.

Michael never suggested things like that. Never talked about the outside like it was a place he belonged in. He’d mentioned the first floor of the building, and that he grew up here—but now that Gerry really thought about it, he’d never actually seen Michael leave the flat.

Not once.

Not to get groceries. Not to check the post. Not even to throw out trash.

“Go out?” Gerry echoed.

Michael nodded, smoothing his sweater down with the heel of one hand. “There’s an old park a few streets over. Faded iron gates. Stone paths. It used to be a Victorian cemetery before they converted it into something more ‘family friendly.’” He gave a small chuckle. “It’s quiet. You’d like it.”

Gerry stared at him for a moment, caught off guard.

He looked normal. Calm. Even cheerful. As if he hadn’t spent the previous night whispering in Gerry’s ear through a mouth that didn’t exist. As if he didn’t contain the spiral in his bones. As if he wasn’t the most terrifying and mesmerizing thing Gerry had ever been close to.

“…Right,” Gerry said slowly, eyes narrowing just a bit. “That sounds… good.”

Michael’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

And for just a second—barely there—there was something behind them. Not malice. Not even knowing.

Just… pressure.

Like a storm gathering far away, just before you hear the first distant crack of thunder.

But then Michael smiled again, lighter this time. “I’ll get dressed.”

He padded off to his room, humming softly.

Gerry stood frozen in the hallway, staring after him, the last remnants of the night’s fear curling low in his stomach.

Because if Michael never left the house… then what changed?

The walk started in silence.

The kind that drapes over you like fog, not awkward or cold—but expectant. The park really was a converted cemetery. The old iron gates had been painted over too many times, flecks of rust poking through like sores. Cracked stone paths curved beneath rows of young trees and tired benches. And here and there, half-sunk headstones still jutted from the grass like crooked teeth.

Gerry shoved his hands in his coat pockets, glancing sideways at Michael as they walked.

He seemed… peaceful. Content. Pale as ever, sure, and still slightly too tall, too graceful in that way that made your skin itch if you looked too long—but he was quiet, present. Like a real person enjoying a real walk.

It’s a trick, Gerry thought, but he couldn’t quite believe it.

Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him.

“…What are you?” he asked.

Michael laughed. Not bitter. Not defensive. Just… soft. Like the question amused him in some sad, resigned way.

“I’m still trying to answer that,” he said. “But once—” he looked up toward the greying sky, “—I was human.”

That was all he said.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain when or how or why that stopped being the case.

Gerry opened his mouth to press, but Michael slowed and came to a stop.

They stood at the edge of a clearing where the grass grew a little taller, wilder. The old graves here hadn’t been touched or landscaped. No memorial benches, no polite signs about respectful conduct.

Just stones.

One of them stood taller than the rest. The carving was deep, but time had weathered the lower half of the inscription. Moss curled around the base.

Gerry read the name aloud:

Frederick von Closen.

His stomach went cold.

“That’s…” he started, but Michael spoke first.

“You might need to take another trip to the library,” he said.

But the voice wasn’t quite his.

It was just off enough to make the hairs on Gerry’s arms rise—like Michael’s vocal cords were being plucked by someone else’s hand. The cadence was wrong. Slower. More deliberate. Older.

And when Gerry looked up—

Michael’s eyes weren’t green anymore.

They weren’t anything.

Just a slow, turning spiral, barely visible, like a reflection in glass—or something moving behind his pupils, deeper than they should go.

The same pattern Gerry had felt on his skin, in his dreams, behind the mirror.

The spiral is present.

A deep, crawling dread filled Gerry’s lungs.

Michael blinked once, slowly.

And when he looked back again, his eyes were green.

Gentle.

Human.

Michael smiled. A little embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… It slips through sometimes. I don’t always notice.”

Gerry couldn’t speak.

Not yet.

Not until the ringing in his ears stopped.

Michael turned and began walking again, calm as ever. “Come on. I'm getting cold.”

Their outing ended, but Gerry didn't follow Michael home. He had information to track down. 

The air in the library was still and stale, like the pages had soaked up too much silence over the decades.

Gerry hunched over the cracked wooden table in the corner, the only one with decent light. A thin notebook sat beside him, scribbled with half-legible notes, arrows and circles and names that felt more like omens than relatives.

He hadn’t told Michael where he was going.

Just said he needed a walk.

But he hadn’t really meant to come here. Not consciously. His feet had led him like they knew.

And now he was staring at the truth.

Elsa Keay—née von Closen.

The words were right there in the archive copy of a genealogy register, typed in crooked rows on yellowed pages. His mother’s mother, Elsa von Closen , had married into the Keay family in 1923. The von Closens had been a minor noble line, apparently—half-forgotten, mostly academic, known in esoteric circles for their interest in antique texts and spiritualism.

But the further he dug, the clearer the picture became.

Frederick von Closen, his great-grandfather, had been a figure of strange repute.

Poet. Writer. Antiquarian.

A seer , if the articles were to be believed.

He owned a bookshop in London’s East End and was close friends with the Shelley family—prominent occultists, landowners, and self-proclaimed stewards of a “great tradition.” Gerry found half a dozen mentions of Frederick in society columns and obscure spiritualist newsletters from the late 1800s.

His daughter, Elsa , was once engaged to Michael Shelley , the Shelley's eldest son.

The engagement was short-lived.

Michael disappeared mere weeks after it was announced. No body was ever found.

Frederick was said to have gone mad with rage , convinced the Shelleys had taken his daughter’s fiancé for some ritual purpose. Gerry found a single quote in a dusty photocopy of a 1921 Arcane Herald interview:

“The spiral has taken root in their blood. If they think it can be fed forever, they are mistaken. That house is not a prison. It is a mouth.”

Gerry stared at that sentence for a long time.

In 1923, Frederick drowned in the fountain of the Shelley estate— the very house that had since been gutted and converted into flats.

The flat Gerry now lived in.

The circle was closing, coiling in tighter.

He didn’t believe in fate.

He didn’t.

But as he sat in that library, the air thick with dust and old ink, he could no longer call this coincidence.

His mother had always known. She must have.

The books, the rituals, the strange rules about spirals and mirrors and touching things with gloves.

She knew this bloodline led back to something with teeth.

Gerry leaned back in the chair, staring up at the cracked ceiling like it might part and give him answers. His pen hovered uselessly over the paper.

He hadn’t gone looking for destiny.

But destiny had found him .

And it had Michael Shelley’s face.