Ben hadn't heard the tapping Mrs Reynolds complained about. Nor had he found any evidence of mice. Unable to offer an explanation for the noise he left 111 West End.

Instead of returning to the office, Ben drove away from the town. The narrow country lanes took him up into the hills, far from civilisation. He pulled into a lay-by, switched off the engine, and allowed himself to remember.

*

Fifteen Years Earlier,

The bouquet he'd picked was obscenely over the top, but Ben was never one to do anything half-arsed. He pressed the doorbell, hoping she wouldn't keep him standing on the doorstep, looking like a love-struck fool. This was business. After her odd behaviour the night before, his concern was for his property.

Thankfully, Natalie opened the door before anyone passed by and she ushered him inside.

"These are for you." Ben grinned as he handed her the bouquet.

"They're beautiful, thank you so much. Come through." She raised the flowers to her nose as she walked into the lounge.

"How are you?" Ben checked the hall and lounge for damage.

"Better, I think... I need to apologise for last night. I shouldn't have called you."

Ben followed her into the kitchen and watched as she fetched a vase from the cupboard next to the butler sink. She opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. As she snipped the stems of the two dozen yellow roses and arranged them neatly, he couldn't help thinking she was the last person who should handle anything sharp.

"Natalie, has this happened before?" He leant against the aga and crossed his arms.

"You mean, am I insane?" She placed the last rose into the vase and filled it with water.

"No, that's not what I meant." Although that was exactly what he meant.

"I'm not crazy, Ben. This house is all wrong."

"So you've said, but I have no clue what you're talking about. I have bought, sold, and let properties for the best part of two decades. I've witnessed nothing to suggest life after death exists. Haunted houses are products of an overactive imagination. I'm sorry, Natalie, I just don't believe in ghosts."

Natalie carried the vase into the lounge and placed them on a table by the window. "I'd like to show you something."

Ben followed Natalie into the garden. He watched in silence as she unlocked the door to the orangery and gestured for him to step inside.

In the far corner was an easel, the painting covered by a white sheet. Natalie had stacked the shelves once used for potting plants and growing shoots with paints, brushes, palette knives, and turpentine.

"You've been busy."

"The light is perfect for painting." Natalie walked over to the easel and pulled back the sheet. "I want to show you this."

The portrait of a man with wispy grey hair, heavy wrinkles, and deep-set eyes stared back at him. "I need you to see this."

Ben didn't know how to respond. Should he compliment her on her work? She was a talented artist.

"He's an interesting-looking fellow."

"He is who I see, wandering the house. Watching everything I do. I had to paint him. So I know I'm not mad. So I can prove I'm not lying."

Ben did not see how the portrait proved anything. "I still don't believe in ghosts."

Natalie's eyes welled with tears.

"Fine, I'm crazy. Certifiably insane." She dropped the sheet and stormed out of the orangery. Ben watched as she crossed the lawn and went inside, slamming the French doors behind her.

Ben picked up the sheet and covered the portrait. As he returned to the house, he glanced up at the bedroom window and the man from the portrait stared back.

*

The rain pattered against the windscreen, blurring his view of the hills. Even hardcore walkers wouldn't venture onto the moors in this weather.

Ben was alone... Or maybe he wasn't? Everything he believed altered the day he saw an apparition.

For weeks after, Ben wondered if he was weak-minded, or suggestible, or tired, or stressed, or losing his fucking mind.

Desperate for answers, he'd combed through the census, as far back as 1801. And there he found the answer to his question... He was neither weak-minded nor suggestible. Doctor Arthur Bennet had indeed lived at 111 West End.