My flat was on the top floor so above it there was a loft. Strictly speaking I wasn’t supposed to enter the loft, but I had a lot of junk and nowhere for it to go. It wasn’t as if I had to break in, the loft entrance was in my hallway, all I had to do was get a stepladder climb up and open the loft hatch. It wasn’t locked. I felt I’d be a fool not to use all that empty space, criminal almost given the shortage of space in London. So I started putting boxes up there, I had to be careful because not all the loft floor was boarded. Going through the middle was a rather odd brick wall, it only went halfway to the roof and didn’t meet the walls on either side, but it was very neatly built and kept half of the loft hidden from me, I dared not look behind it.
I must admit the whole loft made me feel uncomfortable, like an uninvited guest, a trespasser. It was very warm up there, the air was close and had a sickly sweet smell like the smell of sweat on someone who is standing far too close. Though in this case it definitly felt like I was the intruder on personal space.
After my initial desire to unpack and put things away I forgot about the things in the loft. It became a bit of a black spot, I would rather buy a new item than venture back up there. The banging began about a month or so after I’d moved into the flat. It came from the loft and it wasn’t just banging, there was scratching, whining, mumbling, squealling, and talking. It would happen a lot at night. I lay in my bed looking up at the ceiling, considering the situation of my soul, and I noticed there was a tiny hole just above my bed, big enough for someone to put an eye up close against it and look down.
To be continued…