The rain in London wasn't like the rain in Chicago. In Chicago, the rain was a challenge, a blustering force that demanded an umbrella and a sturdy pair of boots. Here, in the narrow, winding veins of North London, it was a persistent, damp ghost that seemed to seep through the brickwork of the houses themselves. Artie Penhaligon stood on the pavement of Blackwood Lane, his two vintage leather suitcases looking decidedly out of place against the cracked sidewalk. He looked up at Number 12. It was a classic Victorian terrace—narrow, tall, and seemingly squeezed into place by its neighbors. To anyone else, it was just a house. To Artie, with his architect's eye, it was a study in verticality and deferred maintenance. He noted the slight sag in the lintel above the door and the way the ivy clung to the brickwork like a desperate hand.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the heavy brass key. He was an American in London, a Chicagoan who had traded the glass-and-steel heights of the Loop for the soot-stained history of the East End. His family back in the States—the kind of people who had their names on library wings—would have loathed this place. They preferred climate control and floor-to-ceiling windows. But Artie wanted something with "bones," even if those bones came with a discount rent that felt suspiciously like a clerical error.
The door creaked—a genuine, cinematic groan—as he pushed it open. The entryway was narrow, smelling of floor wax, old paper, and a faint, sharp medicinal undertone that reminded him of a sterile hospital ward.
"Hello?" Artie called out. His voice echoed up the narrow stairwell, sounding startlingly loud in the heavy, storied stillness of the house.
"The door is heavy. You must lift as you turn, or the bolt sticks."
The voice came from the shadows at the top of the landing. Artie squinted. A man stood there, framed by the dim light of a singular, flickering bulb. He was dressed in deep navy medical scrubs, so dark they were almost black. He was thin—not the thin of a runner, but the thin of a glass sculpture. His skin was pale enough to look translucent in the low light, stretched over a sharp, aristocratic nose and high cheekbones.
"You are Arthur," the man said. It wasn't a question. His French accent was precise, each syllable clipped and polished like a gemstone.
"Artie, actually. Nice to meet you," Artie said, extending a hand as he stepped further into the hall.
The man descended the stairs with a gait that was unnervingly smooth. He didn't bounce or sway; he simply arrived. He looked at Artie's hand for a fraction of a second too long before giving it a brief, cold squeeze. His skin felt like fine porcelain that had been sitting in a refrigerator.
"I am Étienne. I work the night rotation at the Royal Northern emergency department. I am departing now." Étienne adjusted a silver watch on his wrist—a beautiful, mechanical piece that Artie recognized as a vintage Patek Philippe. "I require silence during the daylight hours. My room is on the first floor, at the rear. It is the one with the reinforced door. Do not knock. If the house is burning, call the fire brigade first, then perhaps consider me."
Artie blinked, a half-smile frozen on his face. "Right. Got it. I'm an architect, so I'll be out most afternoons sketching or at the firm, anyway. I'm pretty quiet."
Étienne gave a single, stiff nod. He didn't mention the rent, the weather, or Artie's journey. He simply moved past him, his movement stirring a draft of cold air that smelled of antiseptic and something metallic—like copper. The front door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made Artie feel like he'd just been locked in a vault.
Artie took a breath and headed toward the back of the house, following the sound of a radio playing a distant, grainy tenor. He passed a closed door—presumably Étienne's—and noticed the frame was reinforced with steel plates. Odd for a doctor, he thought, but perhaps he values security above all else.
The kitchen was a total shift in atmosphere. If the hallway was a tomb, the kitchen was a hearth. It was messy, warm, and smelled violently of garlic, toasted pine nuts, and earth. A massive man was hunched over a butcher-block island, his back to the door. He was wearing a grey henley that looked three sizes too small for his shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to reveal thick, hair-covered forearms.
"The American! I heard the door groaning!" The man turned around, and the kitchen suddenly felt even smaller. He was broad-chested and rugged, with a mane of dark, unruly curls and a jawline that looked like it could crack walnuts. He beamed at Artie, showing a set of teeth that were slightly too large for his mouth, dominated by prominent, sharp canines.
"I'm Artie," Artie said, feeling his own "old-money" reserve melting in the face of such sheer heat.
"Rocco!" the man bellowed, wiping a hand on a flour-dusted apron and gripping Artie's hand in a grasp that felt like a warm vice. "Welcome to the madhouse. You like basil? Tell me you like basil. Most of these Londoners think it's a weed, but I grow the best in the borough right out there." He gestured with a chin toward a tiny, fog-shrouded backyard where the herbs were thriving despite the lack of sun.
"I love basil," Artie admitted. "You're the chef?"
"At The Copper Pan. We serve late, so I am here in the mornings to yell at the plants and here in the evenings to prep the soul." Rocco turned back to the island, where he was pounding a piece of veal with a mallet. Each strike was rhythmic and incredibly powerful. "You are thin, Artie. We will fix this. A man cannot live on blueprints alone."
"I appreciate that, Rocco. It's a great house. A bit... quiet in the front, though."
Rocco paused his pounding, his eyes darting toward the hallway. For a second, a flicker of something intense—almost predatory—crossed his face before it vanished back into a jovial mask. "Étienne is a Frenchman. He thinks he is a gargoyle. Ignore him. He has his way, I have mine. You? You are the bridge."
Rocco pointed a knife toward the ceiling. "Your room is at the top. Best light for a man who draws buildings. Just watch the third step; it's a liar. It sounds like a gunshot if you step on it too hard."
Artie thanked him and began the trek upstairs. As he climbed, he noticed the architecture of his new life. The house was a series of contradictions. Étienne's door on the first floor was cold to the touch as he passed it. Rocco's room, further down the hall, puffed out a scent of cedar and wet fur.
When he reached the top floor, Artie found his room. It was small but charming, with a slanted ceiling and a large dormer window that looked out over the rooftops toward the city. He set his bags down and walked to the window. In the distance, the lights of London were beginning to blink on.
He felt a strange vibration under his feet. It was faint—a low, rhythmic thumping from the floor below. He leaned down, ears straining. It sounded like a heartbeat, or perhaps just the old pipes of a Victorian house groaning under the pressure of a new inhabitant.
He opened his suitcase and pulled out a framed photo of his family's estate in Illinois. He looked at the perfectly manicured lawn and the bright, sterile sunlight. Then he looked at the peeling wallpaper of his new room and the shadow-drenched street below. He had come here for something real, something with "bones."
He didn't know yet that the bones of 12 Blackwood Lane were very much alive. He sat at the small wooden desk, pulled out a fresh sketchbook, and drew the first thing he noticed: the heavy, iron bolt on the inside of his own bedroom door, which looked much newer than the rest of the house. It was a curious addition for a rental, but then again, everything about his new roommates felt slightly... out of time.