Growing up in England during the seventies and eighties was all damp and dreary. The kind of childhood where in your spare time, the only thing you could do was go outside with your friends or watch paint dry. I lived in a small industrial town, in the north, known for the many mineshafts that came about around the early nineteenth century. What was once such a proud town, full of opportunity and pride, was now just a shell of something great. Poverty struck after the industrial revolution died down, and many workers followed the jobs in other areas across the country. Only a few remained. When I was three, my Dad died from a stroke, he too planned to leave town in search of something better, but that never happened of course. My Father and I shared the same name, Peter. I wish I could've met him. My Mum says he was a great man and he was now in a better place. I still hope, even now, that's true.
I had a few friends in town. Most I met at school and that would be where the extent of our relationship would be. We would hang out at school, play some football at the local green and that would be it. But Simon. Simon was different. We would go on bike rides together through the dilapidated streets and go over to each others houses. I especially liked going round to his house because he had a Television. My Mum wasn't keen on a TV. Not just because of the price tag but she had a firm belief that it was "Lucifer's Creation" and we are "Being Brainwashed". Understandably, I thought she was out of her head. Ever since Dad died, or at least for as long as I can remember, she has been a devout Christian. There were crosses all over our house. Kind of like those weird rituals that summon spirits.
I remember the day I biked home with Simon when he told me something I'll never forget.
"Have you ever been down that road behind your house?", he asked. There was never a road behind my house, well I thought there wasn't. It was just regular countryside hills and grass beyond that.
"What are you on about?"
"You know, the one with all those painted doors and windows?"
I genuinely had no clue what he was talking about. All the houses in our town were actual real houses that could be lived in. Of course, most were left uninhabited after the workers left, but none has "painted doors".
Confidently I said, "Go on then, let's see these painted houses then."
We made the short journey to my house. Except we didn't take the turn into my street and kept going. After a few meters, we turned into a short strip of road with around six houses (three on each side). Behind the right side of houses was the countryside and thick forest area I spoke about earlier. The houses were thin and narrow, with about 10 feet of space between each one. Compare that to the tight layout of every other house which, if you're lucky, have about a foot or two. Simon walked over to the first house on our left and signalled for me to follow. I did.
From a distance the house seem normal. But up close, is when the anomalies begin to show. Simon started brushing his hand against the "door", showing me that it was flat and not real. In disbelief, I inched closer, touching it for myself. He was right.
"Have you ever been able to go inside?", my curiosity only grew more for the near half a minute it took for Simon to respond.
"No.", Simon still stared into the painted door. It seemed like he was looking for something, but there was nothing to look for.
The other five houses follow the same formula, with the same painted door, variating colours, and two windows on either side (again, painted). The windows had a black outline for the frame and a cyan for the "inside".
"You know Peter. I have an idea.", he paused for a moment. "We could turn this into some sort of secret hideout!"
Despite how creepy this whole place was, that would be cool.
"How about we look for an opening?" , I suggested.
We split up, with Simon taking the left and I took the right. The sides and back of the houses were blank of colour apart from the colour of the brick. This whole street seemed so dystopian to me. I mean, it didn't seem dystopian, it was.
We searched every corner of every house looking for an opening or signs of damage to try and get in. And we found it. Simon's voice echoed over to me.
"Peter, here!"
I darted over in the direction of the shouts towards the middle house on the left side. At the back of the house is where Simon stood. Examining a small hole in the house. With enough squeezing we definitely could fit in. Simon went head first, I pushed his shoes as he slid in carefully. I followed. Looking up, the building was hollow. On the ground was debris. Wooden slats, concrete, it was all there. The house stank of tar and smoke from cigarettes.
It was darker inside than I expected. The painted windows from outside didn’t let in any light, of course, so the only glow came from a crack in the boarded ceiling above and a faint slit through the entrance we’d squeezed through. My eyes adjusted slowly, but my nose was having a tougher time. The air felt thick—like it had been sitting still for years, marinating in dust and the ghosts of past lives.
Simon stepped carefully, avoiding the jagged pieces of wood and shattered glass that littered the floor.
“Looks like someone’s been in here before,” he said, nodding to a half-burnt mattress in the corner. There was a tattered blanket over it, and something that looked like a pile of old cans and wrappers nearby.
“Probably some homeless man,” I muttered, kicking aside an empty bottle. “You think anyone still comes here?”
Simon shrugged, clearly less bothered by the idea than I was. “Maybe. But they’re not here now.”
He said it like that meant we were safe.
The weirdest part was the silence. Outside, even in our small town, you’d always hear something—a dog barking, cars in the distance, birdsong maybe. But inside the house, it was like sound didn’t work properly. Like the air swallowed it whole.
We spent about twenty minutes looking around, poking at the half-collapsed furniture and trying to guess what each room might’ve been. Bedroom, living room, maybe even a kitchen in the back if you squinted hard enough. Everything was stripped, though. It was like someone had taken a real home, scooped the life out of it, then sealed it back up with paint.
Simon suddenly stopped near a boarded doorway that looked like it once led upstairs.
“You hear that?”
I froze.
No. I didn’t hear anything.
That’s what terrified me.
He pressed his ear to the wood, and I joined him. And then, just faintly, came the sound.
TAP
TAP
TAP
Slow, deliberate. Like someone pacing above us.
“There’s no upstairs, right?” I whispered. “You saw it—this place is hollow.”
Simon didn’t say anything. Just stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide.
Then another sound.
This time not from above.
It came from behind us.
A quiet dragging noise, like something heavy being pulled across the floor.
We spun around.
Nothing.
Just that rotted mattress and a broken chair.
But we both heard it.
“Maybe… maybe we should come back tomorrow,” Simon said, suddenly pale.
I nodded, too scared to argue. We backed out the way we came, pushing each other through the small hole, hearts pounding.
Out of nowhere, just as we turned around, an audible cough came from the far corner of the house. There was a big pile of furniture and wood stacked up.
Enough for someone to hide behind.
We raced back towards the exit. Simon escaped first and tried to pull me out.
I was stuck. Somehow, the gap felt smaller. It fit Simon perfectly but I was stuck.
Then, very faintly, I could hear footsteps. These footsteps gradually grew in pace over the course of a couple seconds, until it became a run.
"Come on Simon!"
My foot suddenly kicked something. It was soft. Like cloth, or skin.
I didn't dare to look back though. My clothes began to rip against the brick. I didn't care anymore.
With force, I suddenly flew out the gap. Just grazing the fence that separated the back of the house to my street.
My fight or flight senses kicked in and I ran towards my bike and pedalled as fast as I could, with Simon following closely behind.
That night I stared at the crucifix that hung on my bedroom wall. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. For once, it brought me comfort. I was protected from whatever, whoever that thing was. It was fast, almost not human-like.
Simon and I never discussed what happened that day and we never returned. As we got older we grew further apart and went our separate ways. I hope he is doing well now.
As for me, I moved away. I have a great family, a good job and I'm doing well for myself.
But every once in a while, when I'm alone, I still hear it.
TAP
TAP
TAP