about, then ruffled the priest’s clothes. He grew rather red in the face as he recited his verses. I

thought it was highly amusing.

Martin, the spirit of a dour old soldier, told me to leave them alone. “Finlay, let them think they’ve

won, and they’ll leave us be.”

But I was having too much fun to stop. I rattled ornaments and threw them around the room. When

an ashtray hit the priest on his shoulder, the family were beside themselves, and rushed away to hide.

The priest cradled his injured arm, and his demeanour changed entirely. A dark glare was in his eye as

he pulled a different book from his robes.

Intrigued, I tried to see the cover; it was small, black, and leather bound. That was no Catholic

book. There was a gold emblem on the cover that looked similar to volumes I’d glimpsed in the

London house for The Order of the Golden Dawn. As soon as he began reading from this book, I felt

something clutch around my throat. I struggled to free myself, clawing at nothing. I worried I’d

choke...and yet how was that possible when I hadn’t taken a real breath in years?

Before I could react, a great force swept me off my feet and dragged me backwards. With a howl, I

hit the wall. The words used by the priest were heavy and strange, some form of Latin. I tried to prise

myself away, but the wall held fast. My body – or what I felt was my body – collapsed inwards, sucked

into the wall. I screamed, I shouted and wailed. None of it helped. I was swallowed up as easily as one

might drown in tar, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Of all the dirty, rotten luck. Oh, I was still there, encased in the wall. I couldn’t move, I could

barely think. Incarcerated within the fabric of the building, trapped for God knew how long. My mind

slowly receded. That in itself was concerning, as surely my mind – my essence – was what anchored

me. I tried to think on it, to perhaps project my mind elsewhere, but it was hopeless. Whatever that

priest had done, I was prisoner in the wall.

If I ever got out, that old beggar was going to pay.

At first, I could see a little. Occasionally Martin wandered in front of me. My pleas to help were

pointless. Martin couldn’t help me even if he’d wanted to, exactly the same as the night he’d watched

those soldiers strangle me to death in 1919.

So, I was sentenced to nothingness, with only myself for company. At night, on those nights where I

could feel the energy around the building trying to find me, I screamed my frustrations. Maybe the

family who still lived there could hear me, because not long after my room was boarded up. I didn’t

see a soul after that.

My vision and awareness faded. Surely soon I, too, would fade. Maybe that would be for the best, I

thought. Yet, I couldn’t slip away. Almost asleep, not really awake, I was neither here nor there. Then

slowly, as if coming around from a very deep sleep, I felt presences in my room. I heard their

chattering voices, and felt their youthful energy.

Were they children? Who were they? Three of them. As they clambered around, they touched the

walls. They touched me, and I snarled. Angry at being invaded, I sent my energy pulsing through the

room. The chattering stopped, and they disappeared. I heard footsteps, loud, and clomping. Martin’s

footsteps.

“I’m still here,” I groaned.

“Aye, I felt you wake up.” Martin’s voice sounded far away. “How’ve you been?”

“Ugh.”

“They’ve opened these rooms again,” Martin said. I was still so weak, I could barely concentrate.

“You should see ‘em,” he said. “Worse than the barracks, this. Carnage, bloody carnage.”

“Oh,” I groaned with jealousy. “Sounds wonderful.”

Martin left me alone. I may have drifted again. That happened a lot, in my prison. My sense of time

had all but evaporated. How many years had it been? I wasn’t disturbed again, and I’d all but lost

hope, until I felt a new presence.

One lone man, moving about my room.

What was he doing? I could feel him touching the walls. With each touch, I tingled, as if he were

touching the most private parts of my body. He carried despair in him; he was quiet, resigned. I could

almost smell his unhappiness, the flavours of the air that hung around him, heavy with heartache. It

soothed me, and in my wall bed, I stretched and sighed.

Then, the strangest sound pierced my ears. An electrical charge filled the room. My eyes opened in

a flash. I could see. Dear Lord, I could see! My eyes flew around the room; from my position in the

wall I could see the sun was shining golden beams through the dust, and there was a man scrubbing the

window clean. A small wireless sat on the floor near him. Sounds filtered out of it, along with a

female voice singing. I ignored the bare room and its aged appearance – dear God, how old did that

make me? – while I scrutinised this man.

Was it a man? His shape and size suggested it, but such long hair! And bright red, like blood. His

arms were bare, the skin covered in tattoos like sailors had, but more vivid, intricate. Was he a sailor?

I’d never seen a sailor like him. He looked more like some strange, heathen warrior. Who was he? His

clothes were shabby, like workers might wear, and yet so...different.

As my mind slowly began to wake up, I realised this man was no heathen. He simply looked otherworldly.

I wondered what culture he was from. If only I could speak with him. I wriggled in the wall

impatiently.

Damn it all, first interesting person to provoke in years, and I was still trapped in the bloody wall.

I watched him, greedily soaking up his melancholy aura. After so long alone, it was like basking in

warm sunshine. This fine, intriguing man worked around my room, giving it a half-hearted clean.

Every time he brushed against my wall, I felt his energy and I shuddered.

God, but if I could just get my hands on more. He must be cleaning for a reason. Did he seek to cohabit

with me? If so, that meant I may well get my chance to absorb more energy and grow stronger. I

simply had to remind myself of that virtue that often eluded me: patience.

When the red-haired man left, mild panic gripped me. What if he didn’t come back? What if he was

the current owner, and was only selling the property? What if I were left on my own again? Darkness

fell and, with it, I felt my strength rise minutely. It still wasn’t enough to move, but I could almost

shake the fog from my head, and crane my neck from side to side.

That man had run a wire into the room, and connected it to a small lamp for light. There was no

furniture. There weren’t even any drapes over the window; a tattered, purple cloth had been slung over

its rail instead. The moonlight still peeped through like it, too, was curious.

I heard footsteps, and thumps. At first I thought it was Martin returning, but then I felt two

presences draw close. First, the red-head appeared. He was holding one end of a mattress. As he edged

into the room, I saw a younger man holding the other end. My eyes blinked in surprise. This one was

even more intriguing. He had the strangest hair I’d ever seen, short and streaked with colour. He had a

piece of jewellery in his nose that reminded me of tribal witch doctors. If I’d still had a heart, it

would’ve been racing by now.

However, I was disappointed that my new guests didn’t stay long. With a few words between them,

they positioned the mattress, and left. The red-head pottered in and out a couple of times, throwing

sheets and bedding onto the mattress. I squirmed with excitement. Someone was going to sleep here,