I’ve always admired our three-storey semi-detached house, with its neat front lawn and that sprawling back garden where the evening light pools like molten gold. Living on the middle floor feels like being perched between two worlds: the ground floor, where Mrs Clarke tends her begonias and greets me with gentle smiles; and the top floor, where the air hums with unsolved riddles.

Mrs Clarke is the epitome of warmth. A kindly, single woman in her fifties, she wanders downstairs each morning in slippers, offering freshly baked scones or a sympathetic ear when I’ve had one of those days. Her soft laugh drifts through my ceiling vents and I feel safe, cocooned by her good intentions.

Then there’s him. He’s always impeccably turned out: crisp shirt, polished shoes, a courteous nod each time our paths cross. He carries an air of effortless charm, yet a peculiar undercurrent trickles through the walls. At odd hours, I detect a low murmur, like people speaking in hushed tones, punctuated by an occasional stiletto click or the thump of too-heavy footsteps.

Night after night, deliveries arrive at his door—exotic parcels sealed in wax, boxes from distant cities, crates that bear no return address. The courier’s knock echoes down the stairwell, then silence. Sometimes, faint strains of laughter spill out, so extravagant and piercing that they border on the ridiculous. I imagine masked guests in velvet cloaks, feasting on curiosities far beyond my comprehension.

Once, he invited me in for tea. The rooms were pristine, the china gleaming, the air scented with bergamot. Yet when I mentioned the late-night activity, his smile faltered just a fraction before returning to perfect poise. “Oh, merely a few gatherings of fellow enthusiasts,” he said, voice silky. Enthusiasts of what, I wondered—antique clocks or something far darker?

I walk the flowerbeds of our garden, torn between gratitude for his civility and dread of the unknown. Is he a benevolent host, sheltering wayward artists in need of sanctuary? Or is he the devil in bespoke tailoring, orchestrating secret rites just above my head? Each time his door swings shut, the question hangs heavier than any midnight whisper.

And so I bide my time, topping up my tea, tending to Mrs Clarke’s geraniums, and listening for that tell-tale sound that might finally reveal his true nature. Until then, every polite wave in the hallway feels like a gamble—and every knock at my own door could herald salvation… or something far more sinister.