Bleak House

 

 

 

Bleak House 

 by M.P. Conn 

    “This is a lovely place, with plenty of room to move about. It has a communal kitchen and living area—quite cozy, if I do say so myself. I’m sure it will suit your needs. The neighborhood is quiet, and there’s even a little garden, as you can see.”

            A garden? Nothing grew there but weeds, and the ground was littered with scraps of paper and plastic that had blown through the iron fence posts. All of it carried in by the unrelenting wind that had followed me since I stepped off the plane—though it had only been two weeks ago, it now felt like years.

            Two weeks of trudging through wretched homes: ancient plumbing, kitchens frozen in the 1940s, and threadbare furniture inhabited by even more threadbare adults. The estate agent opened the door and ushered me inside, out of the wind that scraped at my ankles and ran up my calves to nest beneath my skirt. Why do I always wear skirts, especially in this weather?

            The entry hall was narrow and dark. The only light came through a dirt-caked pane of glass perched at the top of the door. The floorboards—dark, polished, and battered—were riddled with scratches, deep grooves clawed into the wood as though someone had been dragged, nails digging in all the way. I shook the image from my mind. There was a narrow hall table and a coat stand beside it. The place felt vacant, untouched by life. But that was no surprise. Every home I’d seen in the past fortnight had been empty of presence. I imagined their occupants trudging home at dusk with cartons of takeaway, filling the air with the cloying scent I had come to associate with modern adulthood: the aroma of defeat. No future. No prospects. No children, no partners, no cars, no anything. The "Eau de Defeat" of the middle class.

            Lately, I’d even seen homes where people in their fifties shared space with twenty-year-olds—some of them hollow-eyed, already peering into the abyss of retirement and old age.

            “As you can see, the living room overlooks the front garden. Such lovely three-paneled windows. The same in the upstairs room that’s for rent. Quite nice for your writing, dear,” the estate agent continued.

            We stepped back into the hall. There was a tiny bathroom tucked beneath the staircase—low-ceilinged and cramped, but surprisingly clean, if outdated. At the hall’s end, a closed door marked the owner’s quarters. To the right, another door opened into the kitchen, which included a small pantry with a washer and dryer. So far, this was the best I had seen. But I was already a pessimist when it came to house hunting. Surely something would be wrong—besides the so-called garden and the funereal hallway.

            The kitchen was old-fashioned, but well cared for. The dark wood cabinets and wooden countertops bore stains, but not grime. There was no buildup of grease on the range, and the wall tiles were actually pleasant. Best of all, the entire back wall was glass. A round iron table with four matching chairs sat in the corner, clearly garden furniture that had drifted indoors over time. The effect was oddly charming. The room felt inviting.

            The estate agent was watching me carefully, eyes sharp and calculating. I knew what rooms went for in this neighborhood; she wouldn’t be able to raise the price. I kept my face blank, giving her nothing to read.

            “Let’s see the upstairs, please.”

            “The stairs are a bit steep and rickety, but quite sound,” she said as we climbed.

            There would be no sneaking up or down without the whole house knowing. The landing was small, with three closed doors—one to the right, two side-by-side to the left. She unlocked the farthest on the left. We stepped into a modest sitting room with a worn two-seater sofa and a faded leather armchair. Immediately on the left stood a low unit for a television; the right wall was taken up entirely by a closet.

            “This is the largest of the three, and, as I mentioned, it faces the front garden,” she said, sweeping forward and pulling open heavy velvet curtains. The dim morning light filtered in. In front of the bay windows was an ample desk and a comfortably padded chair. A double bed stood to the right, flanked by two modest nightstands. I looked out, expecting bleak rooftops—but instead, there were trees lining both sides of the street. Bare, it being winter, but thick with twisting branches that offered privacy. To the left of the bed was a small en suite bathroom. Old, yes, but functional.

            “As I told you this morning, it’s only been on the market for three days. It won’t last long. Not every day you find a room with its own bathroom.”

            “What’s the catch? There has to be one. This is too good for the price. Out with it,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

            She wrung her hands and busied herself straightening the room. I said nothing, knowing silence would unnerve her more than words.

            “Well, there’s nothing wrong with the house or the neighborhood—it’s all quite proper. And the room, as you can see, is lovely. It’s just... well, you’d be the only woman in the house. The others are men. Older men, if you catch my drift.”

            “I don’t catch your drift. Spell it out.”

            “Oh, you Americans are so direct.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re old. Very old. They rarely leave their rooms. They don’t tolerate noise—so no music, no telly, no high heels, no guests, no phone calls at night, et cetera. Have I spelled it out for you, dearie?”

            “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you. Stick to your kindly-neighbor act,” I replied coolly, watching her eyes flare.

            “What are they like? Are they going to be knocking at my door trying to chat because they’re bored and nosy?”

            “Actually, I’ve never met them. The flat was offered through a law firm. I’m simply instructed to inform them of my visits. That’s all.”

            I thought back to the other flats. The sagging faces of housemates still clinging to dreams of independence. The older ones, bitter and exhausted, convinced they’d die living with strangers. Homes that stank of failure—cheap food, alcohol, smoke, and endless noise.

            But this place? Three reclusive old men who despised noise? It was a dream come true. And I knew how to handle men. I had been groped, insulted, harassed, nearly raped, dumped, and dismissed enough times to know how to protect myself.

            “I’ll take it,” I said, watching her expression shift from spiteful to saccharine in a heartbeat, her smile straining the skin on her face.

            I moved in the very next day. Once the taxi had pulled away—after the driver helped me unload my few belongings into the small, gated front garden—I looked up at the house with the first stirrings of doubt. The heavy curtains, which we had left open the day before, were now drawn shut once more. The first thing I planned to do, after hauling everything upstairs, was to find the nearest hardware store and buy an extra latch for the door. I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink if I thought someone might come in while I was showering or fast asleep.

            A memory surfaced—another flat, years ago, shared with other adults like myself who still clung to some vision of a future. One afternoon, I’d caught one of the men in my room, standing by my dresser with my underwear drawer open, one of the garments pressed to his face as he inhaled. The image still made my skin crawl. I would have to ask the gentlemen of the house when it might be convenient for me to do my laundry, so as not to disturb their routine or cause a racket.

            I lugged the first suitcase up the two front steps, inserted the key, and stepped inside. The house was as silent as it had been yesterday—no voices, no movement—but a sharp, chemical scent of some powerful cleaning agent hung faintly in the air. By the time I had finished carrying everything up, I was winded. Thin and out of shape. Not because of vanity or control, but because I had never earned enough to eat well. Most of my meager income went to covering the cost of halfway decent rooms in barely decent neighborhoods, and whatever remained was seldom enough to buy proper food.

            Maybe now, living in a nicer area, I could take long walks and get into better condition. But who was I kidding? I would likely do what I always did—lock myself in my room, spend hours writing at my computer, and then the rest of the day trying to sell what I’d written.

            I glanced at the box containing my infamous rejection folder, thick with letters from publishing houses, editors, and magazines politely informing me that my work didn’t suit their needs. Lately, they didn’t even bother with that. But I kept writing. I always kept writing. A strange, stubborn hope clung to me—that someone, someday, might finally take notice. In the meantime, I scraped by with freelance editing jobs, correcting other people’s work for low pay. There was always some work, just enough to keep me from starving—though only just.

            Still, I told myself, I was free. No boss breathing down my neck. No cutthroat colleagues to compete with. No need to rise at dawn, dress in stiff clothing, and commute to a cubicle where I’d suffocate for eight hours. As I thought all this, I began to settle in—unpacking clothes into the wardrobe and drawers, arranging my few personal items around the room, setting up my computer on the desk beside my paper, pencils, and other tools of the trade.

            Then I noticed it: an envelope propped against the base of one of the night table lamps. I opened it and found a letter, handwritten on high-quality paper. In one corner was a faint emblem, possibly a coat of arms. I held it up to the light, trying to discern its shape—it looked like the face of a goat, wreathed in serpents. Unsettling, yet oddly fascinating. The handwriting was exquisite, the refined script of someone older, classically trained.

 

Dear Ms. March,

            Welcome to Bleak House. You are probably thinking the name conjures a certain Mr. Dickens, but allow us to put your mind at ease: this Bleak House bears no relation to that celebrated masterpiece. The name remains appropriate, however, for we are rather bleak in demeanor.

            We trust you’ve been made aware of what is expected of you. Regarding more practical matters, allow us to propose a general schedule for the shared areas of the house. Breakfast for yourself may be taken between eight and ten; lunch, between one and three; dinner, from seven to ten—we understand that young people tend to dine late. Please note that the main refrigerator is off-limits, but there is one for your use in the pantry. Any unlocked kitchen cabinets are likewise at your disposal.

            As for the laundry area: washing will be permitted only on Mondays and Thursdays, so as not to disrupt our rest. These days should prove convenient.

            Now, the matter that concerns us most: the living area and the back garden, when weather permits. We would prefer that you refrain from using the living area altogether, as you have your own sitting room. Should you wish to entertain—briefly—either in the living room or garden, kindly inform us in advance so we may avoid an uncomfortable encounter. We have been assured that you are a respectable and well-mannered young lady, and would never dream of entertaining a gentleman in your private quarters. Should you wish to receive a female friend for tea, we ask only that you let us know a day beforehand.

            That said, welcome to our home. We are delighted to have you here. May you find peace and contentment within these humble walls.

           

            There was no signature. I still had no idea what the names of the three men I was now living with were. But everything outlined in the letter seemed reasonable enough. I could adjust to their timetable, and I rather liked the idea of not having to make small talk too often.

            I had expected to spend the afternoon cleaning the room from top to bottom, but someone had already seen to it. That explained the sulfurous tang of the cleaning product. Every surface gleamed. The bathroom tiles sparkled; the taps shone. The floral bedspread that had been on display yesterday had been removed, and a fresh mattress cover fitted over the bed. Two pillows, still in their plastic wrapping, lay waiting. I had brought my own mattress protector, dreading the usual yellowed, sagging horror, but it looked like I wouldn’t need it this time.

            I laid out my towels in the bathroom, hung my robe on the back of the door along with my favorite nightgown—a flimsy thing from another life, back when I still believed I might meet someone, fall in love, and build a family. The television cabinet would do nicely for all my books, as I didn’t own a TV.

            Once everything was in its place, I folded up the boxes and carried them out through the back garden to the dumpster I’d spotted on my visit the day before. But as I returned, I stopped dead in my tracks.

            In the downstairs window of the main bedroom stood three men, watching me intently. There was no light in the room, and I couldn’t make out their features—only the silhouettes of their figures, unmoving, framed by the dim glass. They offered no gesture of greeting or acknowledgment. Their silence, their stillness, unnerved me. Yet hadn’t they already made it clear that they desired as little contact with me as possible?

            I tried to ignore them as I stepped back inside, but paused just before closing the door. There was a rustling sound in the dark garden. I turned my head, trying to locate its source, but each time I looked, the movement vanished—just shadows dancing at the edge of vision. I shrugged, shut the door, and told myself it was nothing.

            Since I hadn’t had time to buy groceries, I decided to head out and explore the area—to find a market, a chemist, and, most importantly, the nearest library. Remembering the warning about heels, I laced up my trainers, threw on a coat and scarf, and stepped out into the cold Scottish night.

            I wandered without much purpose, canvassing the neighborhood, watching the people go by. Strangely, everyone seemed happy—or perhaps it was just my mood casting a gentler light on the world. I had found a place where I could write. It was clean and quiet, and I could afford it. I had nearly given up on such a possibility. Yet even as I walked among the lively streets, the memory of the house clung to me—a heavy, somber presence at the edge of my thoughts.

            Not far off, I found what I needed: a hardware shop where I bought a door latch and screwdriver, a grocery store for essentials, and the chemist. As I lingered in the shop window, a man around my age accidentally bumped into me. We exchanged smiles, and as I turned to leave, he surprised me.

            “Would you like a coffee?” he asked, gesturing across the street.

            His smile was infectious. I hesitated, then thought, why not?

            “Calum Campbell,” he said before we even sat down, extending a hand. “But everyone calls me CC.”

            “Beth,” I replied. “Beth March.”

            “You’re American! I thought you were a Scottish lass, what with the red hair and all.”

            “The hair comes from my Scottish ancestors, so you’re not too far off.”

            “Been in the city long?” he asked, as he poured three packets of sugar into his coffee.

            “Just two weeks. Moved into the neighborhood today. A couple streets over.”

            “I live just around the corner with five others. These old houses have too many rooms to rent out just one. It’s cheap, so I make do. What about you—flatmates?”

            “Just myself and three old men,” I said. “Strange ones, too. I haven’t even met them properly. I only saw them today, staring at me through the window. Didn’t even nod hello. I bought a latch for my door—I've had enough bad experiences living with strangers to know better.”

            “I get it,” he said, nodding. “I’m thirty-eight, got a degree in applied sciences. Thought I’d have it all sorted by now. But like most of us, I’m stuck. Jobs in my field, when I find them, barely pay the bills. I share a flat like I’m still at uni. We live hand to mouth, no savings, no property, nothing. And then some politician says we don’t want to buy houses or cars, that we prefer scooters and flat shares. Where do they get this nonsense? I’d like to see them queue up for the bathroom at seven in the morning with five people all running late for work.”

            “I know what you mean. I’m forty-two, still waiting for my break—and it’s not coming. I try not to think about the future. It’s terrifying. Sometimes I see people with that haunted look in their eyes, and I pray I never see it in my own reflection.”

            We talked for hours. The café filled and emptied and filled again, and by the end of the evening, we were fast friends. He walked me home, and on the stoop I told him about the house rules, the creaky stairs, the general strangeness. He didn’t seem to mind. We were both just glad to have found some warmth in this cold, hyper-connected world.

            Back inside, I put away my groceries, then—curious—tried the old men’s refrigerator. It was locked and oddly warm to the touch. Perhaps it was broken, but it wasn’t my concern. I spent the evening writing at my desk with the heavy curtains thrown open. I disliked how they muffled the room, made it feel too closed, too silent.

            I must have been deep in my writing when the stairs creaked. I nearly jumped. Since moving in, I hadn’t heard a sound from the three men—not a footstep, not a voice. The silence had been so complete that the sudden creak sent a chill through me. But what was there to fear from three elderly recluses?

            Still, the muse fled. No words would come after that.

            Later, brushing my teeth, I wiped the steam from the mirror and turned—only to scream. A large, dark shape hovered over my shoulder. I spun, heart pounding, but there was no one there. Just fatigue, I told myself. Too much excitement. I calmed my breath, finished brushing, and slipped into bed. The door was latched, and I was safe. I slept well—until the stairs creaked again in the dead of night.

            I woke instantly, sitting up in bed. A soft click followed, as though a door had closed on the landing. I sniffed the air—something sulfuric, acrid, laced the darkness. But sleep pulled me down, heavy and irresistible. I didn’t notice the three dark shapes at the foot of the bed, standing silently, watching me.

            In the morning, I opened the window beside the bed. The air smelled of car exhaust, damp, and rain. I vaguely recalled the strange odor from the night before, but there was no trace of it now. Just another overcast day in Edinburgh. I dressed quickly, crept downstairs, and found the kitchen as I had left it.

            As I prepared breakfast, the room grew hotter. Sweat beaded on my skin, trickled down my spine. The air thickened, shimmered. The world around me blurred. I clutched the counter, blinking as shadowy shapes darted at the edge of vision—skittering, sniggering, always vanishing when I turned to look. Dizziness overtook me. I stumbled to the sink, splashing cold water on my face and neck until the sensation passed as suddenly as it had come.

            What on earth was wrong with me?

            Then, somewhere in the house, a door clicked softly shut.

            In the following weeks, I saw CC nearly every evening. We met at the café, then walked the city as twilight settled. On weekends, I joined him at his flat for dinners eaten on cushions around the coffee table. The conversation always turned to politics, the economy, the quiet ache of unfulfilled dreams.

            Sometimes I found myself walking toward St. Michael and All Saints. I’d slip into the last pew and watch the congregation, wondering what kind of faith kept them upright. I didn’t believe in God, yet something about the church calmed me. The house had grown oppressive. I often felt as if I couldn’t breathe, and the street—any street—was a reprieve.

            One evening, returning home, I sensed something was off. At first I couldn’t place it, but then I saw: a pen out of place, a book misaligned, the labels on my medicine turned the wrong way. Someone had been in my room.

            Fury surged. I flung open the door and shouted into the house, my voice echoing up the stairwell.

            “If I ever find my things have been tampered with again, you’ll regret it!”

            No reply. No footsteps. No apologies. The silence was maddening. I stormed downstairs, slamming my feet on every step—until I entered the kitchen and froze.

            The three old men were sitting at the table, drinking tea. All the fury drained from me in an instant. I stood in the doorway, breath caught, as they lifted their teacups in eerie unison, their eyes fixed on me with inscrutable calm as they contemplated me in silence.

            Set before them, in the middle of the table, lay a folder brimming with sheets of paper. As I entered the room—slowly, hesitantly—the men did not interrupt their tea. They sipped and stared, their pale, watery eyes fixed on my approach, unblinking. When I reached the table, I saw my name written in elegant cursive across the folder’s cover.

            “Why is my name on that folder? What’s inside it?” I asked, my voice quavering. I didn’t understand why, but something about these men filled me with dread.

            The one seated near the window rose without a word and pulled out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. Like an automaton, I obeyed.

            My hands began to tremble; my knees knocked faintly together. There was something terribly wrong about these men—but for the life of me, I couldn’t say what. I, a writer, found myself unable to compose even a basic description of the figures seated silently around the table.

            The man directly across from me pushed the folder forward with a delicate, almost reverent motion. It was an invitation. I opened it with trembling fingers. The first page was a photograph—of me. One I had uploaded to my blog years ago. I studied it for a long moment. I looked so young, so bright. I remembered the exact day it had been taken—Santa Cruz, California, a golden afternoon at the beach with my father, celebrating my university graduation.

            I turned the page. A medical form. My latest checkup, personal health data, and information I hadn’t shared with anyone. How had they come by it? Then again, in this digital age, anything could be bought, hacked, stolen. For the right price, privacy meant nothing.

            I looked up at the three old men. They drank their tea in silence, still studying me with those unblinking, impassive eyes.

            The man to my left might once have been formidable—he was tall, gaunt to the point of emaciation, with a skeletal hand that trembled as he raised his cup. His head was bald, his blue eyes rheumy and glassy. The man across from me had neatly parted white hair and a clear, piercing gaze. He was straight-backed, almost athletic in build, and held himself with the self-satisfaction of someone still clinging to superiority. The one to my right was less kept. He retained some patchy hair, but his face was bloated and ruddy, jowls sagging under dull grey eyes. His thick fingers, heavy with gold rings set with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, hovered greedily over a plate heaped with shortbread and tea cakes. A pocket watch gleamed from his waistcoat—like something from a bygone century.

            “Why do you have my medical records?” I asked softly, afraid that raising my voice would shatter the unnatural silence pressing in around us.

            I should have been furious. Outraged. But instead, I felt subdued, diminished. Something in their presence drained my will. They didn’t answer. I looked back down and continued flipping through the contents of the folder.

            My short stories. Drafts of unpublished novels. Unfinished fragments I had never shown anyone. They had rifled through my hard drive, read the innermost pieces of me—the words I hadn’t yet dared to share.

            “We can help you attain your dreams,” said the thin man suddenly, his voice like the creak of dry wood.

            “Yes, we can make sure you're recognized,” whispered the fat one, his mouth full of tea cake, leaning forward slightly as his cold grey eyes wandered greedily over me.

            “We only want to help you find your rightful place,” said the man in the center, straightening—if such a thing were even possible—his already rigid posture.

            I said nothing.

            Something was wrong. Even the air felt altered, as if a thin veil hung between me and reality. Their offer was clear: everything I had ever wanted—recognition, security, success—was being laid at my feet. And yet… it felt as though they had been explaining this to me for far longer than three sentences. As if I had been in that room for hours, or days, listening to their proposal. I felt dizzy, uncertain of where I was. Was this still the kitchen? Or some place else entirely? Out of the corner of my eye, the room shimmered—like a shadowed chamber with no light, where unseen things crept along the walls. But whenever I turned to face it, it was just the kitchen once more.

            My clothes clung damply to my back. Sweat ran down my spine. The heat emanating from the walls and floor was unbearable. I wanted to leave, to shower, to sleep. But their gaze held me in place—three sets of ancient eyes staring into me, unearthing all I had ever longed for, and all I had ever wished to bury.

            “We only ask one thing in return,” said the thin man. “It’s hardly a sacrifice. In fact, it’s something you’ve long desired.”

            “What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice breaking into a dry cough.

            “We are three very old and lonely men,” said the fat one. “There is no joy in our lives anymore. We've always been busy—still are, in fact—but the things that once gave us pleasure no longer satisfy. And what greater joy is there in old age than a child?”

            “Mam, your manners are appalling. What will the young lady think?” snapped the thin man with a look of distaste.

            “Beel, if you ate more—anything at all—you might find more joy in your life,” grunted Mam.

            “Luc, he’s being rude to me again,” whined Beel, turning to the man in the middle, who continued to stare at me in silence.

            “Enough,” Luc said. “We are waiting for Ms. March’s answer. And I am certain it will be yes.”

            “I would never give my child to you. Are the three of you mad?”

            “Oh dear,” Mam chuckled, chewing noisily. “You’ve misunderstood us. We don’t want to keep the child. We only want you to raise it here. With us. We’ll help you care for it—play with it—while your career becomes everything you dreamed of.”

            “I don’t even have a boyfriend,” I protested. “I’m not going to a clinic. I don’t have time for a child. How would I pay for its upbringing?”

            And yet—I couldn’t believe I was engaging with them. Entertaining this absurd conversation. Why wasn’t I running?

            “Ms. March,” said Luc gently, “you know we can make your career a success. You feel it. As for the child… all you need do is say yes. Everything else will be taken care of. Do say yes. Remember what’s waiting for you out there: no future, no prospects, no children, no partner, no car… nothing. I believe you summed it up quite well just the other day. And do you smell that, Ms. March?” He lifted his face and sniffed the air. “That faint, bitter scent? Eau of Defeat, I believe you called it. It’s beginning to cling to you.”

            Tears slipped down my cheeks. I found a pen in my hand. Before me, a contract: a simple statement promising literary success for the rest of my life, in exchange for bearing and raising a child—with them. And the devil be damned, when I looked down again, I saw my signature already inked on the line. And the ink, of course, was dark red.

            The days and weeks that followed passed in a blur. I don't remember leaving the kitchen, or what came after. Whenever I surfaced from the fog, I found myself at my computer, writing. That’s all I recall from those early weeks: a kind of feverish creativity. The rest—my routines, my friends, even CC—slipped away.

            Then, one morning, consciousness returned abruptly.

            I was crossing the street when a man pulled me back roughly from the curb—a bus hurtled by, inches from where I’d stood. Gasping, I turned to thank him, but the sidewalk was empty.

            I stood alone, dazed, heart hammering in my chest. And then… the scent of fresh shortbread drifted into the air. A wave of nausea rose up. I bent over, retching on the curb, clutching a street sign for balance.

            When it passed, I straightened slowly. I laid a hand over my abdomen. The child moved inside me and I could not, for the life of me, remember when I had gotten pregnant—or by whom.

            "Excuse me, but are you Bethany March—the writer? Oh my God, you are Bethany March! I can’t believe it—here I am, just off to market, and we cross paths! You’re my favorite author. I’ve read all your books. Are you working on a new one? What’s it about? You can tell me—I know how to keep a secret! My, but you are very pregnant. You look a little pale—were you heading to the clinic across the road? Let me help you cross. Oh, when I tell the girls at tea that I met you, they’ll be green with envy!"

            The older woman had appeared beside me suddenly, bubbling with cheerful insistence. Once she’d helped me across and left me in the care of the nurse, she waved goodbye, promising to look out for my next novel.

            Had I already written and published another novel? I asked myself, baffled, as the edges of reality began to blur again. My moments of lucidity had grown more frequent as the day of birth approached, but they remained fleeting and disorienting.

            The next time clarity returned, I found myself lying in bed, and somewhere in the house, a child was crying. I rose unsteadily, as if recovering from a night of heavy drinking, and clung to the wall for support. My robe lay draped over the back of my desk chair. When I reached for it, I accidentally nudged the computer mouse, and the screen lit up to reveal a still-open webpage.

            It was the front page of The Scotsman. My face stared back at me from the screen, and the headline announced that I had won the prestigious Man Booker Prize. I closed my eyes and shook my head, hoping to dispel the illusion, but when I looked again, the newsprint had not changed.

            Gripping the chair to steady my racing heart, I tried to make sense of it all. What novel? When had I written it? How had this happened?

            The child’s cries had turned into delighted gurgles, drawing me from the room. I opened the door and descended the creaking stairs toward the kitchen, the source of the sound.

            There, seated around the kitchen table, were Luc, Mam, and Beel. A baby sat in a high chair in the center, giggling uncontrollably as the three old men made faces at it. One face in particular froze me in place—Luc was extending and retracting a pair of horns from his forehead like a grotesque magician. The baby howled with laughter. I, meanwhile, bit down on my fist to keep from screaming.

            And then, seeing that dreadful horned face, I remembered everything.

            That day I had found the three dark men drinking tea in the kitchen. The confusion. The trickery. The pact. They had bewitched me—lured me with promises of fame and success—and I had succumbed. Yes, I was a celebrated author now, but at what cost?

            And yet, watching them now—laughing, cooing, utterly absorbed by the child—my fear began to subside. Something within me softened. The terror ebbed away, chased off by their strange, domestic joy. They didn’t seem so terrifying anymore.

            I remembered evenings spent in the kitchen, sharing laughter over Luc’s absurd stories. I saw Mam in his threadbare slippers, making tea as though he were anyone’s doting uncle. I recalled sitting at Beel’s bedside, in a cold, comfortless room, holding his hand as he murmured about his loneliness.

            The house came into focus then—not just its rooms, but its character. Its ancient walls. The strange, eternal fire that burned in the basement—blue and orange, never dying. Luc’s tidy room, filled with rare books and trophies taken from the prideful. Mam’s chamber, heaped with treasures that had corrupted the greedy. These weren’t simply old men. They were ancient creatures, demons—Lucifer, Mammon, and Beelzebub—but all they had truly wanted was what most mortals crave in old age: comfort, companionship, and the innocent light of a child’s laughter to soften their long, dark years.

            I could clearly picture Beel in his pajamas, hanging laundry in the garden—his underwear fluttering on the line like a flag of ridiculous domesticity. Luc mopping the hall in an old Black Sabbath T-shirt. These were no longer monsters to me, just tired immortals with no interest anymore in soul gathering. All they wanted was peace and joy.

            Bleak House had become my home. Somehow, despite the bargain I’d made, I had ended up one of the lucky ones—a woman with a child, a home, a career, a future. Yes, I lived with three old devils, but they had given me life, too.

            As I went to lift the baby from its seat, I found myself wondering idly: Did some of the apostles live just down the street? Maybe in a cramped apartment, watching over the neighborhood, too old and too forgotten to perform miracles anymore. Perhaps they all gathered in the park at noon to discuss theology. Maybe they were waiting for someone, a lost soul to share their flat, to help pay rent.

            I imagined a notice pinned to a laundromat wall:

            Room for rent in shared apartment.

            Divine location.

            Lots of light.

            I wonder, I thought, if they ever took in single mothers who had lost their way.