I have been spending the last few weeks at The Denizen, a luxury apartment block built by Taylor Wimpey in Golden Lane, just inside the border between the City of London and Islington. I got an email about a month ago from a Mr. Jason Chan, who it seemed had bought an investment property in the building, and on staying in it for a few days while holidaying in London, found that he had purchased a very peculiar piece of real estate. His flat in The Denizen has got a most infernal whistling in it, sort of haunting it. The thing starts any time, you never know when, and it goes on until it frightens you. It's not ordinary whistling and it isn't the wind. Wait till you hear it.
The old piano playing brothel keeper had been at the centre of a paedophile ring based in a warehouse that prior to World War 2 had stood on the site of The Denizen. Those he catered for treated the children he supplied them with – including his own – with great cruelty and violence. The Phantom Child was his youngest daughter who’d bled to death from internal injuries after brutal mistreatment. The strange lady in Fortune Street Park was her mother who’d been found nursing her dead child’s body after these terrible events, while the spirit of the evil brothel keeper provided musical accompaniment. These two ghosts lured anyone they found living in The Denizen to their death.
I still remember stark-naked men and women, who, from time to time, with excruciating yells, leapt to their feet, shaking their heads backwards and forwards, the women with loosened locks falling in black disorder about their heaving, shaking breasts. A voice would then cry out in deepest scorn the sonorous Brythonic verse; “Let their desires be satisfied.” And there would be a perfect orgy of bestiality. The outer circle absorbed the essence of murdered animals: the inner absorbed them: from the highest to the lowest in the universe one lived by sacrificing something. It was fair according to this cult that Godhead should demand a sacrifice. In the sacrifice of others alone lay his godhead. What is to be the end?
I was no longer happy with the Bard. He neglected me and was often angry with me when he deigned to visit The Denizen. I was frightened of his anger for he had no self-control and beat me with clenched fists till I cried. Equally, like a child when he was pleased, his transport passed all bounds. He taught me many quaint arts. Alchemy was one of the arts he really knew. I have made a great many bars of gold and silver from copper and tin.
I married, really married, a Bard at the age of nineteen: but no one knew it, and but for this confession none would ever have known I was one of those Chinese women who are made for Ovates: and among the thousands of deluded women who prostrate themselves before Bards, I was one of the most deluded. I saw the Bard’s eyes flash with interest the first time he caught sight of me, a sophisticated Chinese woman so different to his white admirers. From that day on I saw him daily. He deprived me of much, beauty, ideals and money - but in the end, I believe, I deprived him of greater things.
Feel how the walls of investment flats thicken with sorrow as night after night the owners feel the dull sharp pain from a constantly shrinking soul and eventually become the sole ghosts of their ghost flat. Transported to these cells from all around the world!