The Living Room.

Despite Malichar Street having recently been the beneficiary of some renewal schemes which turned the old ramshackle street into a trendy urban hub, the building at Number 65 was left untouched. It stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all the “gourmet” burger joints, designer boutiques and bars with pretentious names. It was an ugly, dirty building of the Victorian era, replete with rows of tiny boarded-up windows, rotting exterior paintwork and holes in the plaster that looked like the place had been shelled.

Laughlin, who worked at one of those pretentious named bars -The Whistler's Redoubt- thought it an eyesore as he stared out at it every day through the smoked glass but there was nothing to be done. The council had marked the building “listed” which meant it was left for time to let it crumble. It was one of those addresses that was so out of place in such a hip area that it drew the eye; an incomprehensible brick lump amidst the aluminium and glass fronts. For six months Laughlin found himself staring at the dilapidated edifice with a disgusted scowl. It loomed, a heavy, dull, grey slab that constantly put him in a bad mood. He blamed the place for the lack of regular customers, though the prices in The Whistler's Redoubt didn't help.

One day when he stood behind the bar and found himself once again staring at Number 65 when he noticed for the first time the remnants of faded painted letters underneath the first floor windows. He was surprised to discover them, as if they'd seeped out through the cheap filthy paint-job. The letters annoyed Laughlin even more than the building because of the disastrous spelling. “Beniamen and 5uns: Consulitnants.”

He found it hard to believe that such glaring errors were never corrected, especially given the apparent length of time they had been there. It was as if the old proprietors, namely Benjamin and Sons, didn't have a grasp of English letters, which was possible but surely someone would have alerted them to such gross mistakes? It bugged him for hours, especially since he'd never noticed them in all this time, as if the letters seeped out through the brickwork of their own volition, not a sign at all but the mimicry of one.

Another thing that irritated him was the light left on that he could see beaming out from one of the third floor windows, usually he noticed this at closing time, when he'd locked up and stood at the bus stop three yards from the bar. It was always there, every night, a sickly yellow glow leaking out from behind the old rotten wooden boards. He wondered who was picking up the electricity bill and suspected that he and the other business owners were, given the building was empty and boarded up. A single bulb running 24/7 wasn't a big expense when added to the already exorbitant rates but it was the principle, if the council wanted to keep the place as a museum piece, they should find some other way to fund it.

Then there was the ringing phone. It didn't ring all the time, but sometimes he would stand at the bus-stop at night for 20 minutes waiting and from somewhere inside number 65 a phone would ring and ring and ring. He'd hear it some mornings too, when he got in early.

Sasha, the young woman who owned a small ladies clothing boutique in number 63 said that sometimes she'd hear it just ring and ring all day. He liked Sasha, she was cute, funny and had a severe sense of dress. She always wore bright red patent leather high heels and black fishnets a grey a-line skirt and a white blouse with a tie. The tie was the only thing that varied. Her fashion sense was quite jarring considering the elegant and floral designs of the clothes in her boutique. She'd nip in just after lunch most days and down a couple of glasses of white wine while Laughlin and her talked about bands and movies and of course the annoying ringing phone.

It sounded like one of those old phone ringers, like the one his grandmother had in her house when he was very small, loud metallic and merciless, as if demanding to be answered.

Laughlin wished the current owners would just burn the place to the ground for the insurance money and put a nice delicatessen in its place. The street needed a place which didn't charge a tenner a sandwich. Sometimes ham and cheese was preferable to whisky steamed pullet with sun-dried tomato and anchovy relish on a hand-made ciabatta roll.

Sometimes he even wondered if he could get away with torching the place but he was too much of a coward to risk such a bold attempt at gentrification. As such Laughlin did nothing but endure the eyesore and bitterly complain to the other business owners, all of whom shared his disgust at number 65. They had as a group once petitioned the Council for it to be demolished but the Council said the City Elders had deemed it a place of “significant cultural value” which seemed like a joke at the businesses expense.

One day Laughlin had to eject an erratic tramp from The Whistler's Redoubt. The old man wore a filthy blue trenchcoat which stank of stale piss and stale booze. The poor sod had serious mental issues and worse, no money. He kept pestering the few customers Laughlin had for cash so he could buy a drink. He went easily enough but Laughlin could hear him wandering up and down the street ranting loudly most of the day. Just before the five o'clock rush when all the folk came out of the offices and streamed into Malichar street looking for a stress decreasing drink, he noticed the tramp wander past number 65. The vagrant stopped, looked up at the building and then walked back towards the heavy wooden door which was the entrance. Without any difficulty, the tramp slipped inside. Laughlin was amazed to find the place wasn't locked but was distracted as a bunch of braying boys in sharp suits spilled in to the bar.

The night turned out to be busier than usual, probably because of the sunny weather. Laughlin was tired when he closed up for the evening. As he stood at the bus stop waiting for the late bus he noticed that Sasha's boutique was still open, at least the lights were still on. That was so odd that he almost didn't notice the phone ringing from number 65. He was tempted to go over and make sure everything was alright but thought that she was probably doing some late night stocktaking or stitching up some new designs in the back shop. He didn't want to frighten her by barging through the door at this late hour. So he stood waiting at the bus stop, listening to the phone ring and ring and ring until the bus came.

The next day, as he was cleaning out the espresso machine, he was visited by the police. They wanted to know if he'd seen Sasha and he explained that he'd noticed her shop was still open when he'd left the previous evening but no he'd not seen her. The police gave him a card and asked him to call if he remembered anything else. He agreed he would and then spent the rest of the day with a low level worry about what might have happened to her. It was turning into a warm summer and again he found himself swamped with customers and forgot about Sasha.

When he stood at the bus stop that night, once again the telephone was ringing from somewhere in number 65 and he remembered the disturbed tramp. He wondered if Sasha had heard the phone, entered the building and been assaulted, perhaps killed by the deranged vagrant. He made a note to call the police the next morning, which he did.

The officers were grateful for the information and later on that day he did see two of them enter the building but again the bar was full of people. Laughlin knew he needed another a member of staff quickly, hopefully before the weekend and so before he left that night he wrote a staff wanted sign and stuck it on the window.

That night the street was quiet, no ringing phone, though the light from the third floor of number 65 was still on. There was also a car parked outside which looked like the car that belonged to the police officers who entered number 65 but he couldn't be sure and suspected he was imagining it.

The next morning the car was gone but he was greeted outside the bar by another couple of police officers who wanted him to repeat what he'd said about Sasha and the Tramp to the previous officers. They said they just wanted to make sure they'd all the correct details and then wondered if he had remembered anything else. The police officers were not as friendly this time, not hostile but he got the feeling that they considered him at best untrustworthy and at worst a suspect.

This niggled at him all day, during three interviews for staff, the lunchtime and evening rush even as he locked up. The ringing from the phone of Number 65 had started again and as he waited for the bus he finally decided to go and check out where it was coming from, to rip the wires out and perhaps even turn off the light. He'd been annoyed by the police and this had escalated into anger as he became more and more tired.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door to find a dusty darkened stairwell, with a broken bannister and cracked plasterwork and chunks of interior masonry. The place smelled of damp and neglect and the ringing echoed plaintively across the cracked and crumbling walls. It did not look dangerous just dirty, so he stepped inside, stepped over some broken bottles that rattled when he pushed the door fully open and ascended the stairs.

As he climbed the stairs to the third floor the smell of dampness and dust was replaced by a sharp vinegary redolence which had a hint of vomit; the smell of pub toilets or a wino's hovel. At the third floor it became almost intolerable but he pushed on to follow the sound of the ringing phone and spotted the pale yellow light spill under a door at the end of a corridor littered with ceiling plaster and broken bricks.

Laughlin opened that door and was surprised by what was inside. He expected a ruined office but instead found a brightly lit lounge, a living room, with a red carpet, brown leather sofa, tables, lamps and flock wallpaper a fireplace and even a painting above the fireplace. In the centre of the room was a small circular wooden table on which rested a heavy old black phone, the phone which had haunted him by ringing for all those months. Below the table were shoes and some piles of clothes, in a rudimentary circle. He noticed a dirty blue overcoat and a single red high heeled shoe, partially eroded. A worry spread through him but the place was such a vibrant curiosity that Laughlin could not help but walk across the threshold into the room.

The carpet was sticky, like that of a grotty cinema, it took some slight effort to walk upon. The living room also reeked of that bitter sharp vinegar vomit smell, so strong in fact that Laughlin pulled his jumper up over his nose to mitigate the assault on his nostrils. The door swung shut behind him and closed softly, with a noise more akin to a squelch than a bang. He tried the handle, pulled it hard but the door would not budge. Placing his other hand on the wall beside it for support as he yanked on the handle he found the wall-paper saturated with dampness and the wall behind it spongy and soft, as if the plaster behind had also been soaked through. He did not panic at this, it was an old rotting building after all. He instead decided to deal with the door upon his exit and went back to his mission, to find out why the phone was ringing and put a stop to it for once and for all.

There was a slight slope downwards as he walked to the centre of the living room, towards the phone. Here the carpet was so wet and so sticky that his footsteps exuded a faint bubbling goo at the edges of his shoes. He ignored it, walked to the centre of the room and picked up the receiver of the phone. As he placed it towards his ears he heard some guttural flushing sound from it and had the worst sinking feeling. The floor underneath the carpet seemed to have collapsed under his weight and he, along with the wet red carpet was being pulled down. At least that was what he thought until he noticed the ceiling and walls closing in, the walls were drooling, thick ropes of viscous saliva swung from the warping ceiling palette and just as he was about to move, to scream, to do something, the carpet opened up like a meaty flower and the living room closed in over him, swallowing him whole.

The next morning, the shopkeepers of Malichar Street commented to one another that the phone at number 65 seemed to have stopped ringing again. They hoped for good this time.