Aziraphale whistled cheerfully to himself as he picked up the final book from the cardboard box and then slotted it in amongst its fellows on the bookcase. He took a step back, admiring his hard work and smiling at a job well done.
His gaze drifted to the empty bookcases that surrounded him, boxes of books stacked next to each one. They would just have to wait, but that was fine. He'd not even had the sign above the door repainted yet. Most of his business came from book restorations rather than book sales anyway, and he had plenty of those to be getting on with.
Turning back to the completed bookcase, Aziraphale let out a pleased sigh. In his old bookshop - a pokey little place he'd rented far outside of London - his bookcases had been sturdy but plain things. These mahogany cabinets, which he'd inherited along with the shop and suspected to be Victorian, were beautifully carved and complimented his book collection perfectly.
To his surprise, Aziraphale had inherited the property from a distant relative – Uncle Ezra Fell - who he'd been very fond of as a child. They'd called him uncle, but he must have been a first cousin once removed or something of that sort.
Aziraphale's parents used to take him and his brother to visit Uncle Ezra's shop whenever they were in London - so a couple of times a year. He'd been a kind-hearted old fellow and Aziraphale had enjoyed visiting him, so it was a shame when the families lost touch.
Uncle Ezra had run an antique shop, and these very shelves once held a variety of wonderful things, from art deco lamps and Edwardian music boxes to paintings and china figurines. As a boy, it had seemed an absolute treasure trove. After inheriting the shop and going through everything, the memories it had brought up had him smiling fondly – and getting a little teary eyed.
Although he'd been forced to give away or sell many of the treasures – there were just too many lovely things and not enough space - he'd managed to keep a few items. Much of it was now tucked away in boxes while he decided what to do with it, but some things were now in the bookshop itself, like the grandfather clock, the huge free-standing globe and the hat stand by the door. He'd even found some books to add to his collection.
Why did Uncle Ezra leave the shop to him? Had he known Aziraphale ran his own business? He must have. Maybe he'd secretly hoped that Aziraphale would keep the Fell name above the door, turn it into a bookshop and love the place just as much as he had himself.
Selling the shop hadn't even crossed Aziraphale's mind. It was a beautiful building, elegant and charming, twice the size of his old shop and in a prime location. Plus, it held such lovely memories.
Aziraphale picked up a box of music records and headed to the spiral staircase at the back of the shop which led to the flat upstairs. He'd moved himself in there, glad to be close to his business. He wouldn't have to pay rent at all now – for his home or his shop – and wasn't that something? He'd be forever grateful to Uncle Ezra.
The flat itself was small but cosy. It'd been too small for Ezra and his wife, who had lived just outside of London with their dogs, but it was perfect for Aziraphale. It was just him, after all, and he didn't need much space except for his books. Ezra had rented it out, but it seemed that in more recent years it had only been used for storage, acting as an overflow for the shop. It had taken Aziraphale several days to clear it out.
Aziraphale pushed open the front door and stepped into the living room. He squeezed past a few cardboard boxes - a reminder that there was still unpacking to be done, even up here - and then he took his box of music records down a hallway and into the spare room, which he'd turned into a reading nook. There was just enough space for a couple of bookcases, a fold out sofa for guests, an armchair, a little table, and his prized Edwardian gramophone and music collection. He hoped the records he'd found among Uncle Ezra's treasures would play on it, and when he tried the one he was most excited about - Handel's Water Music – he was delighted to find that it played perfectly.
He sat in the armchair for a moment, listening contentedly, and his gaze drifted to the faded old wallpaper. It was peeling in the corners, probably decades old, but he'd worry about redecorating at a later date. There was plenty to keep him busy for now, and his shop was top priority.
He made himself some dinner, humming along to the music as it drifted into the kitchen, and then he sat at the little kitchen table and ate with a novel propped up in front of him.
Once he'd finished eating he found himself at a rather dramatic point in his book. Wanting to concentrate on it fully, he headed into the reading nook to turn off the music. Carefully, he lifted the needle of the gramophone. The music stopped but instead of the peaceful silence he'd been expecting there came the sound of a child crying.
The sound stopped him in his tracks. Oh dear. The walls between him and his neighbour were thinner than he'd thought. He felt guilty for playing his music at such a high volume. Was that what had brought this poor child to tears? Handel's Water Music was hardly a tearjerker though.
He took his book into the living room, hoping to find some quiet in there, but the crying grew even louder. It almost felt like someone was in the room with him, and it made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
The only room where the crying couldn't be heard was his bedroom, perhaps because it was on the other side of the flat, and so he tried to read there instead but he found himself terribly distracted. He worried for his young neighbour, wondering what could have filled them with such despair. Should he go and check on them? Would that be neighbourly or rude? Would they think him nosey? Children often cried for little reason, so it was probably nothing to worry about. He didn't want to pester his neighbours, especially at such a late hour.
Soon, he gave up on his book and returned to the living room, fully intending to check everything was alright next door. But the crying had stopped, thank goodness, and so he decided to meet his neighbours another day. It would be nice to make new friends.
Aziraphale made a mug of cocoa and then he settled down in the reading nook with his book, but now he felt utterly exhausted. The crying must have rattled him more than he'd thought.
Once he'd finished his cocoa he got ready for bed, and just as he was nodding off, it occurred to him that the crying shouldn't have been the loudest in the living room. It didn't make any sense - none of the walls in that room were connected to his neighbours. He told himself that sound travels strangely in old buildings. It must be down to strange sound physics, perhaps to do with the fireplace in the living room. Maybe they shared a chimney? The situation was bound to have a sensible explanation, but it made him feel uneasy all the same as he drifted off to sleep.
The next day Aziraphale spent most of his time in the bookshop, restoring a book for a customer. By late evening, he'd had his dinner and was now trying and failing to set up the television.
He threw the instruction manual at the floor in a fit of rage. Oh, this was infuriating! Had he lost a cable? But he'd labelled everything so carefully before packing it away. Oh, how he hated modern technology, it always managed to bamboozle him. He gave up - he was only making himself cross - and poured himself a stiff drink. The Antiques Roadshow would just have to wait.
He settled down on the sofa in the living room with a whiskey in one hand and his book in the other. He'd stopped reading last night at a rather exciting bit and was soon fully immersed again. Before he knew it, it was dark outside, and rain was pattering against the windows.
Aziraphale looked up, not sure what made him do so. Did something move out of the corner of his eye? He found himself staring into the hallway, which was dark and full of shadows, the only light coming from the lamp beside him. He stared intently, narrowing his eyes, and then he saw something that made him freeze in place. There was a person – a man, tall and sturdy – walking away from him down the hallway towards the bedroom.
A cold sweat came over him as he leapt to his feet, turning on the living room light as hurriedly as he could. Light flooded the room, spilling into the hallway, but there was no one to be seen.
"Who's there?!" Aziraphale yelled, his voice shaking even though he tried to sound confident. "How did you get in?"
No response.
"Show yourself!"
Was he about to be burgled? Assaulted?
On instinct, Aziraphale grabbed his umbrella from the basket by the door, fully prepared to wave it threateningly and maybe even bash the man with it if things escalated.
"Get out!" Aziraphale shouted.
The bathroom and the reading nook were opposite each other, their doors wide open, and Aziraphale's bedroom lay at the end, with its door ajar. There was nowhere else the man could have gone.
Aziraphale forced himself to check every room, shocked by his own bravery, though he suspected Dutch courage had something to do with it. There was no sign of the man or any evidence that he'd ever been there.
Perhaps there had never been an intruder at all.
At the end of the hallway there was one cardboard box on top of another, and a coat hung from the end of the bedroom door. He must have mistaken those things for a person. There was no other explanation, unless he'd simply had had too much to drink. The whisky decanter was quite low, now that he thought about it. He'd had more than he'd thought. Plus, he'd been rather stressed lately. Maybe he just needed a good night's sleep.
He went around the flat, making sure all of the lights were on and the front door was securely locked and bolted.
When he finally went to bed, he left all of the lights on.
A week later and Aziraphale had almost forgotten about the man in the hallway, putting it down to his mind playing tricks on him.
He felt quite at home now, comfortable and settled into his flat, although he still hadn't finished unpacking.
His brother, Gabriel, stopped by for a visit and Aziraphale excitedly showed him around his new shop and home. Gabriel seemed thoroughly unimpressed, but Aziraphale suspected that was partly down to jealousy. Gabriel had inherited their uncle's house, and while it was a good size it wasn't worth anywhere near as much as the shop.
They ended up in the living room. Gabriel had a go at setting up the television, which hadn't been touched since Aziraphale's failed attempt. Worried that he'd only get in the way if he tried to help, Aziraphale took the opportunity to make them hot drinks, and when he returned to the living room holding a tea-tray he found Gabriel busy channel hopping.
"Oh, that was fast! Thank you!"
"You plugged in two of the cables back to front," Gabriel scoffed.
Gabriel took the coffee that was offered to him but turned his nose up at the plate of chocolate chip biscuits. Which was fine. More for Aziraphale.
The channel changed once again and suddenly Julie Andrew was on screen, twirling in a circle. 'The hills are alive," she sang joyously. "With the sound of music!'
Oh, dear Lord, no. Please, no.
"The Sound of Music!" Gabriel said, his face lighting up. "I've not seen this in years! I used to watch it all the time when we were kids. Do you remember?"
Aziraphale did remember. He'd been subjected to this film almost every day for several months when they were children. Once, they'd even watched it three times in a row. Gabriel had been obsessed, and the lyrics to every song were now scorched into Aziraphale's memory. "Yes, you were rather fond of it. How about we watch the Antiques Roadshow? I missed it last week and-"
"Nah. Only old people watch that." Gabriel turned up the volume, and, to Aziraphale's distress, started to sing along.
Resigning himself to his fate, Aziraphale took a bite of his biscuit. Gabriel had been very kind to help him with the television, after all, so the least he could do was sit through this film one more time.
"Don't put the sound up too high," Aziraphale warned. "The walls are thinner than they look. I don't want to disturb my neighbours." Which reminded him - he still needed to introduce himself to them.
"I'm sure it'll be fine."
Aziraphale tried to think of something to say before Gabriel started singing again. He considered telling him about the spooky man in the hallway but decided against it. Gabriel would only laugh at him.
"You're the first person I've shown around," Aziraphale said. "I hope you enjoyed the tour."
"Really? You've not had any other visitors? But you've been here a month already."
"Three weeks," Aziraphale corrected. "Anathema's coming tomorrow."
"Right. Well, you'd better tidy up before she gets here then. There are boxes and stacks of books everywhere. I'm disappointed you didn't tidy up for me coming over, if I'm honest."
"Forgive me. I'm still unpacking," Aziraphale said dryly, but Gabriel didn't seem to notice his tone.
"As untidy as it is, it's still a massive improvement on the junk shop it was before."
"Antique shop," Aziraphale corrected.
"Second hand shop. Whatever you want to call it. And you really need to get rid of this gaudy old wallpaper. Especially in your spare room. It's peeling. Nice bit of magnolia paint will liven this place right up."
Aziraphale glared at him but Gabriel wasn't paying any attention, he was too busy staring at the screen. He started to sing along again.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
Gabriel left as soon as the film finished, and, feeling quite exhausted, Aziraphale decided to get takeaway rather than cook. He was just leaving via the back door - which was just for the flat - when his neighbours, a young couple, returned home.
Aziraphale excitedly introduced himself and they chatted away for a good few minutes. Their names were Adam and Evelyn, and they were currently expecting their first child. They'd been away for a week on holiday, and had returned a few days ago.
Which meant the flat had been empty when Aziraphale had heard the crying, so it definitely hadn't come from their flat. But it couldn't have come from the other side either – the shop next to him didn't have a flat above it, it was simply two stories high, and it was closed at that hour. Unless someone had been working late and had put the television on? He didn't mention the crying to his new friends, not wanting to worry them on their very first meeting.
Aziraphale ate dinner in the living room while watching Antiques Roadshow and then he fell asleep, still sat on the sofa.
The next morning he awoke with the sun in his eyes and the television on, the volume low.
There was movement over by the window, and Aziraphale turned, bleary eyed, to look.
Silhouetted against the closed curtains was a boy – perhaps eight or nine years old - staring out of the window with his back to Aziraphale. He looked entirely real and solid, but also horribly wrong. He was shrouded in a dark mist, his colours muted, though his hair was still a vibrant shade of red.
Aziraphale's fingers dug into the sofa's armrest and he found himself unable to move. A strangled sound escaped him, and the boy turned around. Big amber eyes looked right at him, and then the boy opened his mouth and let out an ear-piercing scream before fading from sight.
Aziraphale stared at the spot where he's been, too frightened and shocked to even move, and then he was leaping to his feet and racing to the front door. He scrambled to unlock it, heart pounding in his ears. Ghosts were real! The flat was haunted!
He wrenched the door open and then spun around. He stood on the threshold, staring with wide eyes at the spot where the ghost had been but there was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there. He swallowed. It must have been a dream, a night terror brought on by memories of the man he thought he saw in the hallway and the crying child.
Hesitantly, he walked back inside before closing and locking the door. He felt rather foolish for getting so worked up over nothing. There was no such thing as ghosts.
He opened all of the curtains in the flat, making the space as bright and cosy as possible, but he still felt on edge.
He had a cooked breakfast and then indulged in a nice relaxing bath, determined to forget his recent scare. Once dressed, he picked up his book – he was near the end of it now – and opened the door to the reading nook, planning to settle down in his armchair and maybe even put on some music. He stepped inside and immediately froze.
The red headed boy was kneeling on the floor facing the far wall with his back to Aziraphale. He ought to be lit by the sunlight streaming in through the window but somehow he was still in shadow, surrounded by a dark and murky mist that flickered like static. The boy reached out to touch the wall and then put his entire arm through it like it wasn't even there. Seconds later, he faded from sight.
The book fell from Aziraphale's grip as he staggered backwards, letting out a terrified scream as his back hit the wall.
He had no excuses this time – he wasn't half-asleep, he wasn't looking into an unlit hallway, he hadn't been drinking. There was no denying what he'd seen. He felt sick to his stomach. He ran, pausing only to grab his shoes, and soon he was outside on the street.
A couple of hours later he returned with two carbon monoxide alarms. He refused to believe that his flat was haunted. It was far more likely that he was hallucinating due to being poisoned by dangerous gases. There had to be an explanation for all of this. Yet the detectors told him that there was nothing wrong in any of the rooms, which meant he must be losing his mind. He needed to see a doctor.
Unless... Perhaps he wasn't hallucinating. Maybe it was all real. Maybe ghosts were real. It felt as if his world had been flipped upside down, reality and nightmares blurring together.
A loud ringing shattered the silence and Aziraphale cried out in shock before realising that it was only his mobile telephone.
Before even looking at the screen he knew who it was. Anathema's visit had completely slipped his mind. He answered his phone as quickly as he could. "Sorry, my dear. Yes, the doorbell only reaches the shop. I'm going to have it rewired. I'll be right down." After hanging up he realised that he had several missed text messages from her too, and filled with guilt, he rushed down the spiral staircase.
After having apologised to Anathema numerous times he gave her a tour of the shop and then the flat. He didn't tell her what he'd seen. Not yet. She was a self-proclaimed witch and Aziraphale was hoping she'd sense something was wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. But she didn't give any indication that she thought anything was amiss, occult or otherwise.
By the time they'd explored the entire flat and returned to the living room, Aziraphale was ready to burst with the weight of it all. He'd wanted Anathema to confirm his suspicions unprompted, without any chance that he'd planted the idea in her mind but he couldn't hold it in a moment longer.
"You don't get any strange vibes in the flat?" Aziraphale asked, trying to sound nonchalant while wringing his hands together.
Anathema frowned. "No? Why? What do you mean?"
Aziraphale swallowed, half wishing a ghost would just saunter past them right now so he wouldn't have to explain it out loud.
"What's wrong?" said Anathema. "You've been on edge ever since I got here."
"Please don't laugh. I- I saw something."
"It's okay," Anathema said gently. "What did you see?"
"I don't know. I can't explain it. There were… apparitions. In the flat. There was one in the reading nook a couple of hours ago. In broad daylight, no less!" He let out a nervous laugh, feeling small and ridiculous.
"Ghosts?"
"It can't have been. I know it can't have been. Except... Well. I saw the same ghost by the living room window as well. And I saw a different one in the hallway."
"How was it different?"
Aziraphale lowered his head and stared at his hands. "One was a child and the other was a grown man. At first, I was able to explain it all away – I'd only just woken up or I'd had a few drinks and it was dark. But the one in the reading nook… I have no excuses for that. No way to explain it." He felt deeply embarrassed, but Anathema seemed to be taking him seriously. He looked up at her earnestly. "You really can't sense anything? Maybe I- I must have been hallucinating. I checked for carbon monoxide poisoning but it's not that. What's happening? I feel like I'm losing my mind."
"Just because I can't sense something doesn't mean there isn't something here. There are things I can do to cleanse the building and ward off spirits. If you would like me to?"
Aziraphale nodded, wondering if he ought to get a priest too. He wasn't religious -despite his parents' best efforts - but desperate times called for desperate measures.
"Ghosts can't hurt you," Anathema reassured him. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Here's what we're going to do. First, I'm gonna make us a pot of tea, and then we'll have a good chat about it, and then you can show me where you saw the ghosts. After that we'll go to my place to get the things I need. If there are any ghosts here then they won't be here much longer. I can help them move along. Alright?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Aziraphale answered Anathema's questions over tea and biscuits – though he'd entirely lost his appetite and only managed a few sips of his tea – and then it was time for him to show her where the last incident occurred.
Hands trembling, Aziraphale entered the reading nook. He pointed into the corner. "The boy was kneeling over there."
Anathema moved closer, taking deep breaths, her eyes drifting closed as she focussed her mind. Aziraphale stood behind her, wringing his hands together.
"Can you sense anything?" Aziraphale blurted out after a moment.
Anathema opened her eyes. "No. Everything seems to be okay."
"The boy put his arm right through the-" A cold shiver ran down Aziraphale's spine. He stepped forward, heart in his throat, and knocked on the wall at shoulder height. He knocked again and again, getting lower each time, finishing where the ghost had reached through the wall. It made a different sound. Everything below the top of Aziraphale's knee made a different sound. "Oh-" he whimpered.
They exchanged a look and then Aziraphale started to rip the old wallpaper from the wall by an already peeling corner. As the paper fell away it revealed a cupboard set into the wall, seeming to run along the entire length of one side. It was as tall as his knees and there were old holes where door handles used to be.
Aziraphale jumped back. "It's real! It's all real!" he cried hysterically. He hadn't been hallucinating. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Good Lord! The ghost boy wanted me to find this cupboard! What's in there? What if the boy's body was hidden in there?! Oh, good Lord! I can't-"
"Calm down. Ghosts are often just echoes of past events. You probably just saw him doing something he did every day. Just a menial task. Ghosts aren't aware of your presence. They're not sentient."
"This one is! He saw me! He looked right at me in the living room and screamed!"
"Maybe he was looking at something or someone behind you? From his past life?"
Aziraphale felt faint. He wanted to run away and never come back. He wanted to sell the shop.
"I'm opening the cupboard," said Anathema.
"No!"
"It's okay. You can leave while I do it."
"I'm not leaving you alone with the spooky cupboard!"
Anathema knelt down in the same spot where the boy had been while Aziraphale dithered nervously behind her, and then, taking a deep breath, she opened the cupboard door and peered inside.
"Nothing here." Anathema said. She opened the next door. "Or here. See? It's fine, it's empty. Nothing to worry abo- Oh, wait, what's this?"
She pulled out a scrap of folded up paper from the very back of one of the cupboards.
Aziraphale's heart pounded loudly while she unfolded the paper. Her face instantly paled.
"What does it say?" Aziraphale whispered.
Anathema took a deep breath. "It's a drawing."
"It's a child's drawing, isn't it? Oh, sweet mother of mercy..."
Anathema stood up and then showed Aziraphale the picture.
It was a drawing of a lady with red curly hair wearing a light blue dress stood beside a red headed boy. Off to one side was what Aziraphale could only describe as the devil himself - tall and stocky with demonic horns and a tail.
"Oh, good lord! That must be the man from the hallway!" Aziraphale said, feeling faint. "I've never seen the lady."
"Right. We're going to mine. I'll handle this, don't you worry."
Anathema led the way down the stairs, and soon they were marching away down the street.
