London. November fog, thick and yellowish from the streetlights, enveloped the streets, clinging to the brick walls of Victorian houses and Gothic spires. In a tiny apartment above the run-down pub "The Stubborn Donkey" in Soho, the air was stale, smelling of old books, dust, and… futility. **Simon Vale** sat at the kitchen table, buried under papers, which also served as his office. Across from him – an empty bottle of cheap Scotch whisky and a full ashtray. On his laptop screen was frozen the report for the case "Missing Cat, Mrs. Higgins, Chelsea." Boredom bordering on despair.
His fingers tapped nervously on the table. His gaze, usually sharp and analytical (a remnant of his professorial life), was now hazy, fixed not on the screen, but through the wall, towards where the shadow had forever frozen on the bloodstained wallpaper of his university office *there*, in Edinburgh.
*The click of a flash. The sharp smell of copper, dust, and something… sharp, electric, alien. A voice behind him, icy, devoid of intonation: "Stress, Professor Vale. Hallucinations. You saw nothing. Remember: Daniel Ross was killed by a man. The psychiatrist will confirm." Hands in white gloves quickly carried away the stretcher, covering something… that moment… that moment when the space above Daniel's body seemed to tear, allowing a glimpse of something dark and ravenous…*
Simon swallowed hard, banishing the vision. He reached for the bottom desk drawer. His hand trembled over the key hidden under a stack of bills. Not now. Instead, he poured the dregs of whisky into a dirty glass, took a sip. The liquid burned his throat but didn't warm him.
The sharp, vibrating ring of his mobile phone sliced through the silence. Simon flinched, nearly knocking over the glass. He looked at the screen: Unknown number. The professional (or what remained of it) stirred somewhere inside. He picked up.
"Vale," he rasped, dispensing with formalities.
"Mr. Vale? Simon Vale?" – the voice on the line sounded tense, with a polite, business-like middle-class London accent. "My name is Arthur Olsen. I'm the manager of the **Tenebris Wharf residential complex on the Isle of Dogs**."
Simon frowned, automatically pulling out a battered notebook and pencil. "How can I help you, Mr. Olsen?" His gaze fell on a photograph of Daniel pinned to the bulletin board next to an electricity bill.
"We have a… highly unpleasant and strange situation. It concerns apartment 27. Tenth floor. North wing. It's been vacant for four months, the owner put it up for sale." Olsen paused; Simon could hear him draw breath. "For the last… let's say three weeks, residents of neighbouring apartments, especially 26 and 28, and the floor above, have been lodging complaints. In the evenings, usually between half past eight and eleven, in apartment 27… *the lights come on*. In the living room. Sometimes…" Olsen hesitated, "sometimes distinct **rustling sounds** are heard. Like… like someone is walking barefoot on the parquet. Empty parquet."
Simon felt goosebumps run down his spine. *An empty room. Lights. Rustling.* His fingers tightened on the pencil. "I see. Truly unsettling. Did you call the police? Check it out?"
"We did! More than once!" – desperation rang in Olsen's voice. "After the very first complaints. The police came, checked the door – locked with all bolts, electronic key not activated in the system. They checked the security system logs – cameras in the lifts, corridors, lobby, car park. *No one* unauthorized entered the building. *No one* went up to the tenth floor at unusual times. And certainly *no one* entered apartment 27! When the concierge or police went in *literally a minute* after the lights came on…" The pause became heavy. "The apartment is completely empty. Lights off. Not the slightest sign of entry. Not a speck of dust disturbed. Locks intact, windows locked, balcony clear. We called electricians – wiring perfect. Security system specialists – all sensors normal. Rats, mice, pigeons – nothing! It's… it's absurd, Mr. Vale!"
"And the neighbours are sure the source is definitely apartment 27?" Simon clarified, mentally trying to find any clue: a reflection, a glitch in the smart home system, a draft… But something dull and heavy began pounding in his temples.
"Absolutely! The window placement, the sound… it's definitely that one. People are frightened, Mr. Vale. Whispering about… well, you know what people usually whisper about in such cases. We need an **explanation**. Any rational explanation. Maybe a glitch in the building's lighting control? Or… I don't know… kids playing with laser pointers? *Anything!* We need this to stop. The owner is panicking, residents are threatening to move out. I'm prepared to pay your fee. Urgently."
*Rational explanation.* Simon closed his eyes. Before them weren't reports, but a flash: *the empty office, a second before finding the body… the distortion in the air, a chill, an elusive movement at the edge of vision.* That same feeling of *wrongness*. His voice, when he spoke, sounded calmer than he expected: "The situation is indeed… atypical, Mr. Olsen. Theories about a technical failure or someone's stupid prank are the first that come to mind, and I'll investigate them. I'll require full access to apartment 27, archived records from your security system for the past month – focusing on the times of the complaints – and the opportunity to be personally present in the building this evening, during the 'peak hours' of this activity."
"Yes! Of course!" – the relief in Olsen's voice was almost palpable. "When can you come?"
"By eight. I'll be at the main entrance. And, Mr. Olsen?" Simon paused, his gaze falling on the locked desk drawer. "For now… let's keep this between us. The less panic, the more accurate the observations."
"Completely agree, Mr. Vale. I'll expect you at eight. I'll escort you personally."
Simon hung up. The silence of the small apartment thickened, filling with a new, ominous meaning. The hum of the city outside the window seemed muffled. He walked to the window, parted the curtain. London was drowning in November fog and early twilight, lights glowing as indistinct blurs in the milky haze. Somewhere out there, **on the Isle of Dogs**, stood **Tenebris Wharf**, and in one of its expensive, empty cages, *something* was happening.
He returned to the desk. The key trembled in his fingers as he unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside, beneath folders of failed cases, lay an old army metal ammunition box. He clicked open the lock. Inside – not bullets. Several printed, poor-quality photographs (a strange, inexplicable chip in the floor of his office under the bookcase; a warped internal door bolt), a copy of the sparse police report on the Daniel Ross case stamped 'Closed. No Suspects', the psychiatrist Dr. Shaw's report (diagnosis: "Severe PTSD with dissociative episodes. Hospitalization recommended"). And crucially – a tiny **scrap of fabric**, sealed in a transparent evidence bag. Not from Daniel's clothes. Strange, almost weightless, cold to the touch even through the plastic, with a barely perceptible dark sheen, like the flicker of a weak screen. His only physical reminder of *The Wrongness*.
Simon picked up the bag. The shimmer was barely visible in the dim lamplight. Like then. As if darkness itself was woven into that thread. He swallowed convulsively, stuffed the bag into the inner pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of the chair. The chill of the metal against his chest was faint consolation and a ghastly reminder at the same time. A hungry, fierce anticipation, mixed with icy fear, tightened his throat. He turned off the light in the apartment and stood in the darkness, looking out at the fog-drowned city.
"Apartment twenty-seven," he whispered into the approaching night, and the words hung in the stale air like a promise of an encounter with a ghost. "I'm coming."