"A High Price For Cheap Rent" by C.L. Prestland

A High Price for Cheap Rent

by C.L. Prestland

The letting agent had been clear, but in his excitement, he dismissed the warning. The flat was small—one of four in a converted house—but it was clean and, best of all, cheap. 

What started as the occasional intrusive thought soon grew; a creeping, niggling feeling winding its way up his spine. Curiosity tugged harder as one month bled into another, the agent’s words beating in his ears like a drum. In the earlier months, he’d rarely think of it at work. But at night, as he lay beneath the hatch, his imagination ran riot. Some thoughts had made him laugh aloud; some left a chill, deep in his bones. 

Why couldn’t he open the attic door? 

He’d never met the neighbours to ask them, but he’d heard them moving around enough to know he wasn’t alone. Given what had happened at his last house-share, the quiet was a relief. But as his fixation grew, so did his misgivings about those he shared a roof with.

Around month five, his work began to suffer. Caught asleep at his desk for the third time that week, his manager insisted he see a doctor. A ten-minute appointment. Stress and insomnia. Four weeks signed off. With nowhere to be, he could stare at the hatch for hours at a time. By the eleventh ‘sick day’, he'd stopped eating. The sudden warmth of urine in his lap had snapped him from his trance more than once. Worst of all, he knew how absurd it was—and it still consumed him. He could just open it. Take a look. The landlord would never know.

The letting agent’s words still drummed in his ears. 

Thump.

“Please, don’t open the attic door.” 

Thump.

“Please.” 

What haunted him most was the look in the agent’s eyes. He’d missed it then, blinded by the cheap rent. The more he remembered it, the more he saw the fear there. The way the man’s wide pupils had darted towards the hatch. As though he saw something waiting. Something watching. 

It was the smell that broke him eventually—as he sat in his own faeces. He’d dragged himself into the shower. Warm water revived him, stirring his dull senses. 

Finally, he decided to open it.

Thump. 

“Please.”

Thump.

He had to. He was a mess. Just a child afraid of monsters under the bed. As if the Bogeyman were his neighbour!

He would open it. Find nothing but dust and insulation—a waste of space. Or was it full of tightly taped-up boxes? Trinkets and treasures of a life left behind but not entirely forgotten. Besides, anything sinister would have emerged by now. 

He stared into the misted mirror. The reflection was his—and somehow not. Gaunt, eyes sunken into deep caverns, the matted mess of a beard. What had he done to himself? A groan startled him—just the old plumbing. 

He started to laugh. Curiosity killed the cat—a cliché— but his own had spiralled out of control. When had he eaten last? He doubted he would have survived much longer. Still laughing, he dried himself off. With every rub of the towel, he shed the weight of paranoia like a snake exposing fresh skin.

He felt lighter. Free.

After shaving the weeks of wild growth from his face, he could almost see his old self. Wrapped in his towel, feeling better—brave—he slowly opened the bathroom door and peeked into the room outside. 

The smell hit him at once. Not just his recent accident—weeks of filth. His stomach twisted with disgust. The air thick with lingering steam, humid and suffocating. The floor seemed to shiver beneath him. His heart thumped in his chest, pulsing up into his throat. Certain he would vomit it out, still beating, onto the floor. He stumbled back, landing on the toilet. The drum in his ears was both heartbeat and the agent's words—

Thump.

DON’T

Thump.

PLEASE

He woke up some time later, still sitting there. Mind and body exhausted. He knew he was doing this; he was making himself sick. When he moved in, the flat had been exceptionally clean. The smell of disinfectant hanging in the air. The guilt swam in the corners of his eyes. 

This would all be over by tonight. He would know. Move on. He dressed into a work shirt, tie, and suit trousers. And if asked why? Routine, he’d say.

The bed was too low, so he pushed it away. The dining chair too. So, he stood on the small, dining table. It was rickety, but he only wanted to look quickly. 

Palms against the hatch, he took a deep breath. And pushed. 

The hatch slapped backwards, crashing against something. He flinched. The table rocking. Almost falling. He let out a cry—but the table slowed to a stop. Nothing grabbed him. Nothing fell. Pupils wide, he looked up as if expecting to see something waiting. Something watching. 

It was pitch black. 

Months of obsession simmered beneath his skin. And in a flash of temper, he reached up and pulled himself through the door. He fumbled in the dark, feeling for a light switch near the hatch. His fingers clipped something hard. Click. Light filled the space.

Boxes.

The owner's belongings.

Nothing else.

A guttural scream tore loose. Broken, he clawed at his hair, ripping out clumps. Then came the sobs—long, feral. Endless. He’d ruined himself for nothing.

At some point he had taken off his tie. And his belt. He wasn’t sure when. Couldn’t remember joining them together. Nor looping them over the beam.

The air reeked with the stench of slow death. The only sound the attic bulb’s low, whispered hum.

As he hung there, he saw himself—fresh-faced, healthy—peering up through the hatch. Eyes wide, as though something waited. Watched.

His lips twitched as he tried to shout:

Don’t open the attic door.