Thomas rubbed his hands together, attempting to warm his frozen fingers. His dark eyes darted from shop to shop, curious about his surroundings. The place seemed quiet, but not the sort of peaceful quiet he would've hoped for. It was the sort of silence someone would've been afraid to break; like the inhale before the storm. Right now, Thomas didn't think much of that storm, right now, Thomas didn't even expect a storm. But, really, who does?

The town seemed lonely and no one else was wandering the streets, no one else was taking a stroll. He was felt isolated, as though he was the person in the entire town. And for a moment, he almost believed he was. He pulled out his phone, checking if there was any signal, in that moment, and found (to his utmost relief) that there was. He pocketed his phone and shoved his hands deep into his pockets alongside his phone.

The cold metal contrasted with his hands, which were cold too but still radiated some level of heat. The metal seemed almost to bite into his skin and he almost pulled his hands back out again. But he gritted his teeth and reassured himself that the metal would warm up soon enough.

The temperature began to drop even more and he strolled over to a pub and pushed open the door. It was a rather small pub but then again this was a rather small town. Most of the people in the pub seemed to be drunk or heading in that direction. But what else did he expect in a pub? The pub was almost the total opposite to the street outside. It was loud, warm and packed with people. Thomas took a seat at the back of the pub, not planning on staying very long.

He sat in silence, taking out his phone out to scroll through his messages. One from his sister (about time. She hadn't texted him in months), another from Hadley (he'd refused to answer that one and wasn't intending to change his mind anytime) and a third from Andrea. From two weeks ago. He hadn't answered that one. And he didn't think he'd be able to. Ever. He put his phone away as dark memories threatened to overwhelm him.

That was when he noticed the waitress standing next to him, a tray in one of her hands. She was tall and slim, and undeniably pretty. Her light blonde hair was tied up in a loose bun and her grey eyes were watching him. She was tapping her foot impatiently. "Do you want a bloody drink or not?" she asked, irritation clear in her tone. Thomas was unprepared for her furious tone. "Eh-no," he said quickly. "It's about bloody time you answered," she said, her grey eyes alight with a pale fire. "You have my mos-" he started before he was cut off.

"You're new, right?" she interrupted, the fire in her eyes changing to curiosity. He nodded, not bothering to ask how she knew. It was a tiny town and people probably knew one another well. "I'm Charlene," she said, holding out a long-fingered pale hand. He took and replied,"Thomas." She smiled broadly.

"So, how new are you?" she asked, taking a seat across him and laying the tray down on the table. "I just moved in today," he said (and I'm beginning to wish I stayed in Florida). "Moved in where?" she asked curiously. "Number Six, Grande Street," he said. "Oh that place," she said,"No one's lived in there for about fifty years." Tasha had said that. But then he realised something. He'd been in too scared (scared? more like anxious) to think of it at the time that Tasha had said that.

"Why's the furniture modern then?" he asked, thinking out loud. "What?" Charlene asked, confused. "Nothing," Thomas said quickly, trying to cover it up. The moving company probably just got his furniture mixed up with someone else's or something of the sort. Charlene shrugged.

"Well, it's ancient," she said,"It attracted a lot of attention in the twenties, well at least that's what I heard. There were a few accidents and one or two people died or something. There wasn't a massie scandal until fifty years ago. A guy jumped off the roof or something. Suicide of some sort anyways. No one knew why."A sinking sensation was in Thomas' stomach as he listened. He really didn't want to know.

Charlene apparently noticed Thomas' expression and changed the subject. "I live in the apartment block by Tiffany's. Number 217," she said,"Pop by sometime if you can. Here's my number." She handed him a torn piece of paper and he took it, smiling slightly and put it into his pocket. He didn't have the faintest idea where Tiffany's was, but didn't bother to ask. He'd find out himself sometime. "The WiFi's shitty here by the way," she said,"Just thought I might tell you. The mobile signal is usually bloody brilliant though, so if you need to text or call someone, you'll be fine." Thomas thought both pieces of information were useless. He wouldn't be contacting anyone, since there really wasn't anyone to contact and he really didn't need the WiFi much.

"Charlene! Get the hell over here!" the barman yelled,"You have a job you know!" "For God's sake!" she yelled back,"I am trying to talk to someone! You never give me a bloody break, do you?" She smiled at Thomas before standing up and walking off, yelling some more curses at the barman, who acted as though this was an ordinary occurance.

Thomas left the bar, and the cold hit him like a slap in the face. Still it was better than the uncomfortable heat of Florida that made him feel all woozy and sleepy. The cold made him feel more alert and awake. He shoved his hands in his pockets once more, the metal of his phone feeling warmer and far more bearable to the touch. He wasn't intent on heading back to the house just yet. He didn't want to go back to that house ever again. If he'd known of the history of it before he'd bought it, he most certainly would've somewhere else.

He really didn't have a choice though. Trying to reassure himself, he muttered over and over, under his breath,"The house isn't haunted, the house isn't haunted, the house isn't haunted,", hoping that if he repeated it over and over again, he'd eventually believe it.

He closed his eyes. He was a fool to believe in such superstitions. So what if a man had committed suicide in the house? It wasn't his problem. It wouldn't effect him. The attic too, was another thing he was being a blockhead to be scared of. It was just another boring old attic, unable to harm him at all. He was just being paranoid. And stupid. He didn't really believe a random woman's warnings, did he?

He gathered all his courage (why had he gathered all his courage? There had been no need, since the house wasn't haunted or anything of the sorts) and strolled back to the house. He thought only of the house as he walked, fighting his own paranoia and fear that something was in there. Because there obviously wasn't.

When he'd arrived at the house, the thoughts that seemed preposterous suddenly seemed less absurd. He almost knocked on the door, since the house felt alien. It didn't feel like it belonged to him, rather some old crazy man. Maybe it had been owned by one once. He quickly banished the thoughts (well at least as best he could), terrified of what theories his mind might concoct. He really didn't need that part of his mind to be dominant now of all times, when he was almost shaking in fear and scared to his bones.

He scoffed at his own behaviour. He wasn't (at least shouldn't) be afraid. This was an old house. And that was it. Just an ordinary old house. Nothing extraordinary or unusual at all. And most certainly not anything supernatural. Ghosts were as much a myth as a dragon or kelpie. There had been no real evidence of their existence.

What would Andrea think? Would she think him a fool or a wise man to be afraid? He didn't know. He struggled to make her leave his head. She always seemed to be there nowadays. Lurking in the darkest corners of his mind, waiting for the right moment to haunt him. To make him feel insecure and less confident. Something so unlike her.

He stood outside in the cold for a quite a while, looking up at the house. He felt as though someone was watching him and he turned slightly to look. It was as if she hadn't gone inside, simply had changed her gaze to look at him once again. She still stood there, the bundle of clothes still clutched to her as though they might save her from some monster Thomas couldn't see (mostly because it probably didn't exist... Well definitely didn't exist). Feeling slightly creeped out, he turned away and pushed open the door of the house and stepped inside.