Chapter 1: “A New Beginning”

Alice Greaves rang the bell at Flat 0A and stepped inside. The spacious ground‐floor apartment had been newly refitted: pale oak flooring, brushed-steel fixtures, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a manicured courtyard. Agents had boasted “heritage chic,” though the block itself was barely ten years old. After her divorce, the quiet of this upmarket development in southern England promised the fresh start she craved.

Boxes lined the hallway as Alice unpacked. She found herself lingering in the lounge by the windows: the distant hum of traffic, the late-summer sun filtering through blinds, and—if she closed her eyes—a faint whisper echoing beneath the hum. Just nerves, she told herself, smiling. She had moved five times in the last two years; this would be the last.

That night, she lay awake listening to the building settle. Concrete groaned. A distant drip tapped like a metronome. At 3 a.m., she heard it: shifting gravel, like footsteps in the buried courtyard. She pressed the sheets to her ears.

Next morning, she called the agent. “I hear noises—footsteps—beneath me.”

The agent’s voice was smooth: “The block stands on former farmland. Some victims of the Black Death were interred there, but all remains were relocated before your building went up. “You’ll be fine.”

Alice nodded, though unease pricked at her. That afternoon, she found a tattered pamphlet in a drawer—an archaeological report dated 1979. It noted a mass pit discovered when builders laid foundations; hurried mass‐burials, many left uncounted. The final note: “Remains abandoned to allow construction deadlines.”

She set the pamphlet aside. If the spirits of the plague lay unrested beneath her flat, she would simply ignore them. Yet every time she entered the living room, a cold spot chased her across the rug. She told herself: It’s just a draft.

Chapter 2: “First Disturbances”

By day three, the whispers began. Soft at first, like wind through reeds. Alice sat at her desk, filling in patient notes—she was a clinical psychologist doing mostly a remote consultancy when the voice murmured: “Alice…” She looked up. Empty room.

The overhead light flickered. The thermostat dropped three degrees. She tucked her shawl around her shoulders. This is silly. She checked the motion sensor; all readings normal.

At dusk, while brewing tea, Alice felt a dull thud from the bathroom. She opened the door—nothing. The bath mat lay askew. On impulse, she swapped it for a spare from her linen cupboard. That night, she dreamt of endless rows of headstones floating in darkness. A figure beckoned her forward—a face hidden by cowl.

Waking in a sweat, Alice ran her fingers through her hair. A dull ache pulsed at her temples—strain she assumed. She splashed water on her face, stared in the mirror. The reflection of the flat’s doorway behind her seemed to flicker, as if seen through rippling water.

By the fourth morning, her phone buzzed. It was Mark, her ex. They’d agreed to stay friends. “How’s the new place?” he asked. She forced cheer. “Great. Very…calm.” But as she spoke, the lights dimmed. On the other end: “Everything okay?” She laughed. “Just a power glitch.” She ended the call, heart pounding.

She spent the day researching the block’s planning records at the local archive. The official files insisted all burials were exhumed. Yet a single footnote in an inspector’s log read: “Several skeletons remain unremoved—deep mass pit; high cost to excavate.” No further explanation.

Walking back to the flat, Alice felt eyes watching her from the long grass by the pavement. But no one was there. She hurried inside, locking the door.

Chapter 3: “Echoes in the Walls”

That evening, as rain lashed the windows, Alice lit candles. She sat in the lounge with her laptop and the archaeological pamphlet open. The candlelight danced, casting tall shadows on the walls. A low groan emanated from the living room wall. She pressed her ear to the plaster: wet scratching, like claws crawling just beneath the surface.

Her pulse thundered. She grabbed her phone and filmed the wall, zooming in on a faint dark stain spreading like ink. When she replayed the footage, the stain appeared to shift shape—like a face screaming in slow motion. She scrolled frame by frame. She enlarged it: two hollow eye‐sockets stared back.

She dropped the phone, stumbling backward. Heart slamming, she bolted to the hallway. The stain was gone—just flat, pale plaster under the soft glow of the chandelier.

Alice abandoned the candles, switching on every light. Her reflection in the polished oak showed hollow eyes—terrified. She dashed to her bedroom, diving beneath the covers. It’s all in your mind, she repeated. You’re just tired. She’d slept too little, stressed at work.

The next day, at her computer, she wore noise‐cancelling headphones. Her patients reported insomnia, anxiety, and an odd compulsion to confess their darkest secrets. That afternoon, a young man wept: “I killed her.” Alice listened, stunned. Where did he get that?

She ended the session and sat alone, mind racing: What if this flat amplifies hidden voices? She began to draft an article: “Environmental Influences on Psychopathology”—could she quantify how ambience affects the psyche? But as she typed, each word charred her brain—lines jittered, letters glitched.

Abruptly, the laptop shut down. The clock read 17:13. A dripping from the kitchen sink. She stood, knuckles white, and walked into the gloom. Under the faucet, water ran, pooling on the floor—but the tap was off.

She backed away. No more denying it. She grabbed her bag and fled into the rain.

Chapter 4: “Into History’s Shadow”

Alice spent a restless night at her sister Laura’s home. Laura offered sympathy but little help: “Maybe the building’s haunted,” she teased. Alice waved it off. Ghosts weren’t real. Yet every distant clap of thunder, every creak in the dark, screamed otherwise.

Next morning, Laura drove her to the city museum. The curator, Dr. Milligan, showed her medieval burial records. “In 1348, plague ravaged this region. When they built the modern block, they discovered a mass pit with over two hundred skeletons. Your flat is almost directly above it.” He tapped a map: her flat’s position glowed like a target.

He frowned. “They removed most, but some remains collapsed into the pit’s edges. They hid the cost and never told residents.” He lowered his voice. “Local legend says the restless dead call down souls to fill their ranks.”

Alice fought rising panic. “How do you…stop them?” She felt as if the air in the gallery thickened. The curator avoided her gaze. “I’m not sure. Some say ritual reburial. Others claim silence is the only defense—you must never acknowledge them.”

On the drive home, rain battered the windscreen. Alice stared into the rear-view mirror, half-expecting—no—a face pressed against the glass. But only she was there.

At the flat, she paused at the door. Laura offered to stay. Alice shook her head. “I need to end this.” She cranked the doorknob. The lock clicked, but the door didn’t swing open. She pushed again—firm. It budged an inch, then jammed. She forced it, ramming her shoulder; the lock snapped. Inside, cold air gushed forth, dripping with unseen moisture.

Panic seized her as she stumbled inside. Each step revealed new horrors: footprints in fine dust leading toward the study, as though someone had walked from the wall. She dropped her bag. The damask wallpaper by the bookshelf had peeled, revealing dark soil packed behind the plaster.

Alice’s heart seized. She grabbed a flashlight and knelt. The soil was loose—freshly turned. And embedded in it, a human hand bone protruded like a claw.

She scrambled back, gagging. The whisper returned: “Help us…” She covered her ears, tears streaming. She fled, leaving the door swinging open.

Chapter 5: “The Naming Of The Dead”

Alice holed up with Laura that night. She barely slept—every tick of the clock boomed like a gunshot; every breeze was a wail. By dawn, Laura insisted: “You have to sort this out—move out or fix the problem.”

Alice slumped at her laptop, pages of notes scattered. She drafted emails to archaeologists, environmental psychologists, and clergy. The flat was tainted—every expert stepped back, citing liability. One civil engineer ghost‐wrote: “We recommend sealing the floor slab with reinforced concrete. Complete barrier—no contact with ground.” But the cost was astronomical.

In her mind, the whispers formed words: lost names—invalid spirits craving release. She began scribbling them on sticky-notes. “Agnes Finch. William Hardy.” By the study door, dozens clustered like a shrine.

During an afternoon video consultation, her patient stared blankly at her: “Your face—it flickers.” Alice blinked. “What do you mean?” He shook his head, pale. She touched her cheek—wet. Tears? But her hand returned smeared with ancient red clay.

She recoiled, wiping off the earth. This isn't happening. She shut the blinds. The sky darkened suddenly at 3 p.m.—as though eclipsed. The flat lights dimmed. She lit lamps. Then the thermostat plummeted. Her breath formed mist.

Alice’s phone rang. Unknown number. She answered. A hollow voice: “They remember you.” The line clicked dead. She tried calling out, but no dial tone. She clinched the receiver—felt it vibrate with life. They. Remember. You.

Her vision blurred. She clutched her head. “Stop. Please.” A thousand voices answered in unison: “Alice…” She collapsed to her knees.

Chapter 6: “Breaking Point”

When Alice woke, dawn was gold on the blinds. She lay on the bedroom floor, sheets tangled around her. Her head throbbed. She staggered upright—notes plastered across the desk in indecipherable scrawl. The sticky-notes were gone.

She rushed to the study. The peeled wallpaper lay flat on the floor, soil beneath it smooth and undisturbed. Had she imagined it? She closed her eyes, counting to ten. Focus.

At midday, she resolved: she would reseal the floor. She called a contractor and arranged for emergency work Tuesday morning. Two days away. She packed a suitcase. She would leave tonight—go to her sister’s, stay until the slab was poured.

As she neared the door, the hallway light flickered. A shadow moved behind her on the carpet. She spun—empty hallway. She exhaled and crossed the threshold—only to find the lobby door locked behind her. She had left it ajar. Now it was deadlocked. She rattled the handle. No give.

Behind her, footsteps. She pressed herself against the wall, heart racing. The footsteps paused, then continued down the hall. She leaned out—no one. Only the dimly lit corridor, the final door at the far end slightly ajar. A draft beckoned her forward.

Alice’s rational mind screamed Don’t!, but her feet moved of their own accord. She walked toward the open door—into the communal basement.

Chapter 7: “Into the Pit”

The basement stairs descended in concrete gloom. A single fluorescent light flickered, revealing the cooling tanks and service panels. Alice’s breath pounded. She called out: “Hello?” Her voice echoed, warping down the tunnel.

At the far end, she found a heavy steel door, apparently unlocked. Beyond it lay a small chamber, maybe six paces wide. The floor was not concrete but bare earth, black and moist. She stared in horror: dozens of human bones lay exposed—femurs, ribs, skull fragments—crowded in a shallow pit.

She stepped back—slipped on wet soil. Her hand sank into the earth. She pulled free a small box: an old trinket chest, corroded metal, plague-era wood grain barely legible. She brushed grime from the lid. It crackled open.

Inside lay a ledger on yellowed parchment. The ink read:

Item: Burial fee unpaid

Name: Alice Greaves

Died 1348, plague victim

Burial Mass Pit X

Her name.

Hands trembling, she dropped the ledger as if it burned. The chamber’s single light pulsed, then died—swallowed by darkness. She fumbled for her phone. No signal. No light. A cold breath grazed her neck—ancient and damp.

A voice hissed in her ear: “We found our ledger keeper.” Alice screamed.

Chapter 8: “Confrontation”

Alice bolted up the stairs, dirt sloughing from her clothes. The steel door slammed behind her. She fired the deadbolt shut. She pounded on it. “Leave me aloooone!”. Her voice cracked.

She stumbled into the lobby, now lit by emergency shafts of red light. Her suitcase lay open on the floor, clothes splayed. Wet footprints led back toward the flat. She followed them, dread coiling in her gut.

Inside the flat, the air was colder than before. The doorway to the bathroom was blocked by a mound of earth. She brushed aside soil—more bones lay beneath. She lifted a skull fragment and gasped. It had her likeness. A shock of hair molded to the bone.

She ran to the mirror. Her reflection was pale, sunken—eyes hollow. She reached out; the glass rippled. Behind her in the mirror stood a figure in 14th-century garb, face obscured by a plague mask. It raised a skeletal hand.

Alice stumbled back. Her head spun. She fell into the living room. The lights flickered off. Darkness pressed in. She heard the voices chanting her name, louder and united. Alice…Alice…

She fumbled for her phone’s light, switching it on. The narrow beam illuminated the far wall, where a single sentence had appeared in dripping red:

“DEBT UNSETTLED.”

She screamed, dropped the phone. The wall bled black ichor. Figures emerged from the plaster—spectral forms of men, women, and children. They closed in. She backed into the corner, arms wrapped around herself.

One spirit stepped forward: the figure in the plague mask. It knelt, placing a clammy hand on her shoulder. “Settle your debt,” it whispered.

Alice rasped, voice gone. Desperation flared. She dug into her pocket—found the pamphlet from Chapter 1, and the ledger. She held them out. The pages disintegrated into dust. The spirits hissed in unison, furious.

They surged, blanketing her. She felt spectral fingers entwine in her hair, cold fangs at her throat. She struggled—mind fragmenting.

Chapter 9: “The Vanishing”

Alice awoke on the naked earth of the basement pit chamber. Her head throbbed, and the ancient ledger lay in her lap—blank pages. The bones around her had vanished; the chamber was empty.

She rose unsteadily. The steel door was open. She fled up the stairs to the lobby—now sunlit. The flat lay silent, untouched. No soil, no bones, no stain. Only the faint scent of damp plaster.

She dashed to the agent’s office on the next street. The receptionist looked up, startled. “Can I help you?”

Alice gasped: “Tell me about Flat 0A—any disturbances? Any record of bodies?”

The receptionist blinked. “You mean the one on the ground floor? It’s been empty for months. Floors were sealed. No issues in our files.” She checked her computer. “Actually, our records show the previous tenant—Alice Greaves—never moved in. She signed the lease… then cancelled.”

Alice’s heart lurched. “No—they’re lying!” She ran outside—down the path, past immaculate lawns—toward the front gate. The building loomed, silent as a tomb.

She stopped. On the front door, a fresh keycard lay on the mat. Her name embossed on it:

“Ms Alice Greaves.”

She reached for it with shaking fingers, and her palm closed around the card.

Chapter 10: “Twist in the Tail”

The keycard hovered in her hand. Instinct screamed Don’t go in—but she swiped it. The lobby was empty and bathed in golden afternoon light.

Apartment 0A’s door was ajar, just as she’d fled it weeks ago. She turned the latch and pushed.

Inside, the flat was pristine as a showroom. But her heart pounded. She whispered, “I’m back.”

The walls were blank. The furniture absent. Only one item lay on the floor: the tattered pamphlet and, next to it, a small wooden box.

Hands trembling, she pried open the box. Inside lay a single blackened bone—fragile, maleable like soft clay. A scrap of parchment read:

“Name: Alice Greaves

Died 1348”

Alice screamed as the lights snapped off. Total darkness swallowed her. Her breath echoed—she was entombed once more.

In the hall outside, the front door clicked shut behind an elegantly dressed young couple, ready to view the flat. The woman smiled at the agent: “This will be perfect for us.” Her husband nodded, unaware that beneath their feet, the flat had already claimed its tenant.

The plaster walls pulsed with silent voices, whispering a single name.

Alice Greaves.