Some will remember that inexplicable affair in Bunhill Fields eight weeks ago, where permission for a burial was obtained by a businessman whose wife had committed suicide. Getting approval had cost a fortune. On each occasion the coffin was found in the course of a few days again protruding from the ground. After the third attempt, in order that the thing should not be talked about, the body was buried elsewhere in unconsecrated ground. Where it was secretly buried was just inside the iron gate of Fortune Street Park. This was the body of the woman who had committed suicide in the ground floor apartment I’d been given in The Denizen. Her name was Julia Li.
“I think you’ll be comfortable. It’s only a one bed apartment, we have six dwellings in Taylor Wimpey's The Denizen but if we put you in one of our bigger flats you’d be sharing it with others. Most of the year they're all left empty but when we visit London we like to have a lot friends with us. Originally we only had five flats here but we were able to buy the sixth one cheaply and fully furnished after a woman committed suicide in it. Would you like to go and see it now? By Yanluo, I believe that you are right, and that we are going to have a thunderstorm. How dark it has become.”
We are in a three-bedroom flat in Taylor Wimpey’s The Denizen development. We aren’t far from the ancient heart of the City of London, although we are outside the original city wall, and those selling the flats rather bamboozled investors about The Denizen’s actual location. We have chosen this luxury apartment block for our ghost hunt because it has a truly terrible history. Since it was built last year there are records of no less than thirty suicides in or from it, and there may well have been more.
But the spell was not yet broken. The valley of the shadow of death was not yet traversed. The abhorred phantom was before me still in my luxury Denizen apartment which had been built over a plague pit by Taylor Wimpey. The spectre was standing near the balcony door, stooping a little and with one end of a rope round its own neck, was poising a noose at the other, as if to throw this over my head. While engaged in this baleful pantomime, it wore a smile so sensual, so unspeakably dreadful, that my senses were nearly overpowered.
Digging deeper beneath The Denizen’s foundations, the labourers found some bones attached to and intermingled with fetters. Believing that burying the bones elsewhere would lift the curse of The Denizen, Johnson ordered the men he’d hired to carry them out of the basement. But when those charged with removing the human remains touched them, they dropped dead. The same fate befell Alex when he attempted to pick up the bones. The ghost was happy enough with The Denizen for its home. It was a quiet location because no one lived there….
The rest is shadowy and monstrous. There was no one in the soaking street, and in all the world there was no one I dared tell. I walked aimlessly south past Wood Street Police Station and the south towards The Thames, and then veered west to The Millennium Bridge where the Tate Modern seemed to guard me as modern material things guard the world from ancient and unwholesome wonder. Then gray dawn unfolded wetly from the east, silhouetting the archaic Ludgate Hill and its venerable steeples, and beckoning me to the place where my terrible investigations were still unfinished. And in the end I went, wet, hatless, and dazed in the morning light, and entered that awful door on Golden Lane to which I now had the keys, the entrance to Taylor Wimpey's The Denizen.
The full moon was now high above The Denizen. Through the open window they could see the comforting stars like friendly eyes watching in the sky. One by one the clocks of the City struck midnight, and when the sounds died away the deep silence of a windless night fell again over everything. Only the roar of car engines, far away and lugubrious, filled the air with hollow murmurs. Inside Taylor Wimpey's The Denizen development the silence became awful; awful, he thought, because any minute now it might be broken by sounds portending terror. The strain of waiting told more and more severely on the nerves; they talked in whispers when they talked at all, for their voices aloud sounded queer and unnatural. A chilliness, not altogether due to the night air, invaded the room, and made them cold. The influences against them, whatever these might be, were slowly robbing them of self-confidence, and the power of decisive action; their forces were on the wane, and the possibility of real fear took on a new and terrible meaning...
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!
I scrolled through to the end of the very long and angry screed without bothering to read it word for word. I decided not to look at dozens of other unopened messages with headers such as: The Denizen Really Sucks, Taylor Wimpey Ripped Me Off, Taylor Wimpey Unfinished Estates Shoddy Workmanship & Crumbling Homes, If This Is A Luxury Apartment Then I’m The Queen Of Sheba, and The Denizen’s Feng Shui Is Killing Me. I wanted to die during orgasm but the daily flood of complaints from my fellow ghost home owners were a depressing distraction from my erotic fantasies.