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75 stories.
Every Sunday morning, my inherited kitchen comes alive with a woman's soft humming of 'Abide With Me' and the distinct gush of taps. I live alone, yet this domestic ritual unfolds precisely at 6:15 AM, leaving the sink perfectly dry. But then, I found an old calendar from 1973, with one chilling entry for every Sunday: 'Abide With Me. Washing up.'
After moving into Oscar Vaughn's old house, I became accustomed to the strange noises that came with it. But then, a heavy, locked oak door in the dining room, one I'd never been able to open, slowly pushed itself ajar at precisely six o'clock one evening. I hadn't touched it, and no one else was there.
I recently moved into my inherited old house, full of charming quirks. But the untouched dumbwaiter in the kitchen keeps opening itself. Three times now, I've found warm, home-cooked meals resting on a doily with the initials 'L.S.' inside, despite living completely alone with all doors locked.
