The night hung heavy with an unsettling stillness, a silence made deeper by the steady cascade of rain on the windowpanes. Pale moonlight seeped through the breaks in the clouds, casting a silvery sheen across the old townhouse. Its weathered stones were cloaked in ivy, which clung like skeletal fingers — a quiet testament to history’s stubborn grasp.
As always, the house beckoned to my imagination, stirred by the flicker of shadows and the whisper of wind beneath the eaves. A lone owl hooted from the yard, mournful and familiar. It, or a descendent, had watched over this place since my youth — a constant presence, spectral in its own right, bearing witness to sleepless nights and the steady passage of time.
Moving from room to room, I caught glimpses of my reflection in glass: a white-haired man with a deliberate gait, framed by the ghosts of photographs and the dusty mirrors of memory. And yet, within the quiet acceptance of aging, there pulsed a sense that something remained unwritten — that the very air held the promise of a story not yet told. It was more than mere fiction. It whispered from the bones of the building itself.
f
This was my ritual, my prelude to writing: to wander the corridors, to listen, to watch. And tonight, as I entered my dimly lit den, the house seemed particularly still. Dust danced in the lamplight as I brushed by, silence stirred only by the creaking floorboards beneath me. I crossed to the window, drawn as always to the view beyond — not by urgency, but by long habit. A lifetime spent exploring forgotten corners, searching for truths buried in shadow.
Outside, across the street, two figures stood motionless in the doorway of the old shop. Veiled in darkness and rain, they were almost indistinct — silhouettes more than people, hushed outlines shaped by the shifting interplay of cloud and moonlight. But something in their posture, in their eerie stillness, caught me. They hadn’t moved. Not once.
The storyteller in me stirred, already spinning possibilities. Were they lost souls seeking refuge? Apparitions bound to some forgotten tragedy? The atmosphere of the townhouse seemed to lean into the moment, the walls holding their breath. It was as though the house recognized them.
My curiosity warred with the quiet dread curling beneath it. I had written of such things — spirits, echoes of past misdeeds, time’s fractured reflections. But never had fiction crept so close to reality. Or perhaps reality had simply taken one step too far toward fiction.
Could they be spirits? Guardians? Harbingers? Theories came and went like gusts of wind, some plausible, others fanciful. Vampires? I chuckled to myself. Too clichéd. And besides, they were no longer in vogue.
Yet their silence unnerved me. Why remain so still? Why outside? Why now?
I turned from the window eventually, feigning indifference, but the image of them lingered. I tried to return to my desk, to the page, but my mind revolved around that motionless tableau across the street.
In the following days, I searched for answers.
I combed through newspaper archives at the town hall and the library, digging into the townhouse’s history. Its past was rich but unremarkable. No murders. No great scandals. No whispered lore of spirits doomed to linger. The house had simply endured.
I reached out to those I trusted: historians of the strange, mediums, and friends well-versed in the paranormal. Over the years, they’d fed my fiction with half-truths and ancient rites. Now, I asked for more than research. I wanted contact.
Despite all their rituals, the figures did not waver. They remained each night, standing in the same place, casting long shadows against the shop door.
Compelled, I searched my own house anew. I tapped walls, checked for hidden panels. In the dining room, behind a heavy sideboard, I found an old family portrait I did not recognize. Dust-covered and neglected, it showed a Georgian-era family, most of whom stared out with solemn expressions.
One figure had been angrily scratched out.
The face — or what was left of it — bore an outline strangely similar to one of the silent figures. The image unsettled me, but offered no clarity.
That night, my dreams changed. The house came alive in my sleep, whispering stories of forbidden love and betrayal. I saw two men, their hands brushing in secret, their eyes filled with longing and fear.
Their names came to me like wind through a cracked window: Jonathon and Marion.
Was that possible? Had Marion been a man? In the morning, I found myself moved not by fear, but by grief — grief that their story had gone untold.
Driven by a hunch, I searched the attic. Beneath a loose floorboard, I found a journal, its pages yellowed with age. It belonged to someone who had lived in the house long before me, and in its final entries, the names appeared again: Jonathon and Marion.
The journal told of their love, of its discovery, and of the punishment that followed. Exiled, forbidden to return to the home that once sheltered them. It ended with a single sentence, ink faded but legible:
“We will wait at the door until we are welcomed again.”
Understanding washed over me. The portrait. The journal. The figures.
I lit candles. I opened the journal and placed it on the desk beside the portrait. I began to write.
Not fiction. Truth.
Their truth.
As I wrote, the figures grew clearer in the window. And then, night by night, they began to fade. Their outlines softened. Their presence lifted. Not all at once, but with the steady grace of a burden laid down.
The house, once heavy with unspoken grief, began to breathe easier.
But just as I settled into that newfound peace, something changed.
On a cold wind, two new figures appeared.
Older. Angrier.
And I knew then, with a dreadful certainty, that some ghosts are not waiting to be understood.
Some return only to judge.
About the Author
A. Allan Chibi lives in the vibrant heart of Sheffield. By day, he is a professional and academic historian. By night, he transforms into a writer, crafting tales that span historical fiction, fantasy, horror, poetry, horror, and beyond. When not delving into the realms of history you might find him sparring wits with his overly critical parrot, Jake, or enjoying the company of his wife, Ellen, whose love and patience make his literary pursuits possible.
