Ben checked his diary. From ten-thirty he was out on valuations, which pleased him immensely. His eyes drifted to his first appointment, and he frowned.

9:00 Mrs Georgina Reynolds – Tenant at 111 West End.

He'd expected this meeting days ago. By normal standards, the Reynolds had lasted a good week longer than any other tenant.

Ben turned his chair to face the filing cabinet behind him and slid the bottom drawer open. He took out the thick grey file tucked toward the back and dropped it onto his desk. He flicked it open and studied the long list of previous tenants. At the top was the name Miss Natalie Wilson. He remembered her vividly. She had been an artist and a sculptor. A pretty brunette, twenty-three years old, with striking green eyes. Ben cringed at the memory. He'd struggled to concentrate when she arrived to view the house. He fumbled for the keys and tripped over his words. For the first time, his professional demeanour had slipped.

Ben ran his finger around his shirt collar. It suddenly felt too tight. He reached for his coffee and took a sip, closing his eyes as he swallowed. That meeting was a long time ago, and he'd changed since then. He never allowed himself to dwell on thoughts of her.

The next names on the file were those of Mr and Mrs Thwaite. Ben sighed. They were aggravation from the day they moved in until they moved out. One complaint after another. Ben counted up the complaints. Fifteen in three months. It began exactly one week after they moved in, and after Natalie Wilson, Ben kept a detailed log of every complaint. The first one he had written in capital letters:

11TH MARCH 2006, INTERMITTENT FAULT WITH THE HOT WATER TAP. THE PLUMBER COULD NOT FIND ANY ISSUE.

His eyes drifted to the next complaint.

15th March 2006: Fault with the watchman on the oil tank. Boiler repair was called out. No obvious fault was found. Watchman was replaced at the insistence of Mr Thwaite.

23rd March 2006: Strange smell in the hallway. Maintenance man sent to inspect. No odour was detected.

After three months, the tenants gave notice and moved out. It was the same with every tenant who followed. Some left after a couple of months. The longest tenancy had been six months. Now it seemed history would repeat itself.

He closed the file and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and took long breaths, slowly counting in his head... one... two... three.... the heat from his mug warmed his palms as his shoulders relaxed.

Ben jumped at the knock on his office door and almost spilled his coffee. He put down his mug.

"Come in." He straightened his tie.

The door opened and Anne stepped into his office, dropping a stack of property details onto his desk.

"These need your approval," she said with a smile. Ben smiled back. He liked Anne. She was efficient, and reliable, and never asked him probing questions about his life. Ben valued his privacy and kept his work and home life separate. However, he made it his business to know that Anne, a divorcee, had two grown-up children—two boys. She played tennis on a Tuesday and took a yoga class on a Thursday. She had expressed an interest in him romantically about seven years ago, but she wasn't his type. Too old. Women over thirty-five lost their spark.

"Thank you, Anne. I'll have them back to you by tomorrow."

"Your nine o'clock is here. Shall I send her in?" Anne waited by the door.

"Yes. Please." He cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on his desk. "Here we go again."

"I don't know why you don't sell that house. It's been nothing but trouble since you bought it."

"I know, I should, but it makes me money."

"There's no sentiment in business," she said with a grin.

"You've worked for me for far too long." He grinned back.

"Tell me about it."

Ben watched her leave. He could never sell.

Anne showed Mrs Reynolds into his office and shut the door behind her.

"Mrs Reynolds, what can I do for you?" He leant forward, his elbows resting on his desk.

Georgie cleared her throat. "I'm not sure where to begin."

"The beginning is a good starting point." He smiled as he looked her in the eyes. Blue with a hint of green.

"Yes, of course." She shifted in her chair. Her foot tapped nervously on the floor. Ben's eyes wandered down her body. He ran his finger around his collar again, feeling the starchy fabric tighten. He waited for her to continue.

"The house... it's... odd," she said.

"Odd? In what way?" He opened the file again and picked up his pen.

"I've noticed things. This is going to sound like I'm crazy, but there's this tapping."

"What kind of tapping?"

"Like... rhythmic tapping. Like this." With her fingernail, she tapped out a series of knocks on the arm of her chair. "One, two, three... One, two, three..."

"Can you distinguish where the noise is coming from?"

"I mostly hear it in the bathroom."

"Maybe it's rodents. The house has fields to the rear. There could be mice in the loft. It's September, and the weather is getting cold. It's perfectly normal for mice to come inside, in search of food and warmth."

"No. It's not a scurrying or a gnawing sound. It's a definite tapping."

Ben hesitated. This was the trouble with city folk. They didn't understand life in the country.

"Sure. I will get an exterminator to pop in, just in case. Anything else?" He made a note to call Henry—he usually dealt with any pest issues. If it was rodents, Henry would sort it.

"Yes, there are puddles of water appearing in the kitchen diner."

"Where?"

"On the floor by the cellar door."

"Ah, that could be the roof." Ben scribbled on a notepad, Ask Terry to check the condition of the glass roof. "It's probably due for an inspection. I'll get on to it. You could've spoken to Anne on the phone. To save you the journey. She's very good at dealing with maintenance issues... that is why we employ her." Ben felt slightly irritated. He dealt with more important things.

"Do you know about the house? It's history? Has the landlord ever said anything?"

"Are you looking for a ghost story, Mrs Reynolds?" Ben stared into her blue eyes. He noticed the slight bloom of pink across her cheeks. She was uncomfortable. Embarrassed even.

"Well... no. I'm interested, that's all."

Ben dropped his pen and leant back in his chair. The leather creaked as he folded his arms across his chest. If she wanted a story, then fine.

"Well, they built the house in 1750. We know little until... 1801. Yes, because of the census. In 1801, a doctor and his wife lived there. They listed him as the town's surgeon. In the early 1800s, there was an outbreak of scarlet fever. Do you know much about scarlet fever, Mrs Reynolds?"

"No, not really."

"Nowadays you rarely hear about it, and it's easily treated with antibiotics. Back then, the mortality rate was high, especially in children. You only have to visit the town's cemetery and read the headstones. Buried there are rows upon rows of children aged between three years and seventeen. Terribly sad. Anyway, as the only doctor, and given the size of the house, the doctor treated very sick patients in his own home. I should think many children have passed away inside that house."

Ben picked the file up from his desk and turned on his chair, sliding the folder into the cabinet drawer he sucked in a loud breath and continued, "Now if a person believed in the paranormal they may convince themselves that one or more of the former patients never left 111 West End and are still haunting the house to this day. But sensible people like us would never believe such nonsense." He turned to face her. "Now would we?"

Georgie hesitated for a moment. "No, I guess not."

Ben made a point of looking at his wristwatch. "If I can be of any more help, please contact the office, but I'm afraid I am running late for my next appointment." He stood and walked towards the door.

Georgie rose from her seat and followed him.

"It's an old house," Ben said, his hand resting on the door handle. "Old buildings creak from time to time. If I was over two hundred and seventy years old, I'd creak. Give it time, you'll get used to the strange noises. Anne will let you know about the roof and the pest control." He opened the door and gestured for Georgie to step in front of him.

"Okay, thank you."

Ben watched as Georgie left the office.

"Anne, call Henry about 111 West End. The mice are back."