Friday, 15th November
Oakwood Terrace felt like a thousand others – clipped hedges, morning nods exchanged over garden gates. Yet, Flat 3B at Elm Court stood apart. Not for faded brickwork, but its occupant.
Thomas Wright. Nearly twenty years here, yet a cipher. Polite? Certainly. A nod in the passage, perhaps a faint smile on rare occasions. But conversations? Visits? Invitations? None.
He lived alone in Elm Court’s third-floor flat; weathered stone draped in ivy, a shared letterbox that clattered. Thomas seemed adrift: no kin, no visitors, no parcels, no hobbies anyone glimpsed.
It was the noises.
They started subtly. A soft scuffling. A faint clicking, like claws on wood. Then, low, mournful whining. Sometimes so prolonged, so sorrowful, you’d halt mid-step, wondering if it was a man’s cry. Other times, desperate scratching at skirting boards and doors. One night, a chilling, high-pitched howl froze spines.
Residents tried understanding. “He’s elderly,” they’d murmur. “Perhaps a telly blaring he forgets to lower.” Some joked darkly of horror films played too loud.
But months passed; humour faded. The noises grew wilder, more unsettling.
Eleanor Green, mother of two, slipped a handwritten note beneath his door: “Dear Mr. Wright, We’re concerned. Please, if you need assistance, ask. Also, the noises wake the children. Could you kindly reduce the volume?”
No reply.
Another neighbour, Colin, knocked one afternoon. Thomas opened a crack, face ashen, eyes shadowed. Colin inquired after his wellbeing; Thomas mumbled incoherently and gently shut the door.
Theories began swirling.
“Mental troubles,” someone hissed.
“Keeping someone – or *something* – locked away,” offered another.
“Likely hoarding. Pets, illegally.”
Speculation ran rife, proof remained elusive. Flat 3B stayed locked, blinds perpetually drawn. Complaints rose; nothing changed.
Late November brought a shift. Silence fell.
No glimpse of Thomas entering or leaving. No footsteps overhead. No midnight screeches. Relief? For a few.
On the third silent night, the noises returned – worse than ever. Gnashing. Frantic scratching. Long, desolate howls echoing down corridors, bleeding through floorboards.
“Sounded like it was trying to claw its way free,” Eleanor recounted, trembling.
After a week of this, Colin and another neighbour, Martin, acted. They hammered on Thomas’s door. Nothing.
Louder still. Silence.
They summoned the police.
Officers forced the door. What awaited shook the most hardened among them.
The flat was dark, humid. A foul, decaying stench filled the air. Furniture lay tumbled; wallpaper peeled away. Shredded blankets and cardboard scraps littered the floor.
But the shock lay beyond the mess.
The dogs.
Eighteen of them.
Some barked weakly. Some limped towards the light, ribs stark beneath thin fur. Others lay unmoving – curled in corners, huddled beneath the kitchen table.
And at the heart of it all, lying still upon an old mattress: Thomas.
Eyes closed, hands folded upon his chest, as if sleeping. But he was gone.
The coroner later placed his passing, peacefully in sleep – natural causes – six days prior.
The dogs had stayed. Hungry. Frightened. Waiting.
Flat 3B was no house of horrors. It was a sanctuary – painstakingly built by Thomas over years. The wall scratches? Playful or panicked paws. The howling? Loss cried by creatures who knew only his love.
Thomas had rescued strays.
Dozens over years.
Injured ones. Those dumped in alleys or ditched on motorways. He took them all – feeding them from his pension, sleeping on the floor when the bed was full, tearing old blankets for nests.
He’d told no one, fearing they’d take his dogs away.
Without him, they’d stayed. Uncomprehending. Scratching at the door. Wailing through dark hours. Trying to rouse him.
Never leaving his side.
News spread rapidly through Oakwood Terrace.
Those who once whispered about the strange man stood mute on the path, thick guilt hanging in the air.
Some wept. Others rushed to help.
Eleanor organised a collection drive that very week. Blankets, dog food, carriers, cash poured in. A local rescue stepped forward, assessing and aiding the dogs. All eighteen survived.
One Labrador, later christened Shadow, refused to leave the flat for two days. He’d lain curled beside Thomas’s bed, needing gentle lifting out.
Thomas’s tale didn’t end there.
A rescue volunteer found a small, locked box beneath his bed. Inside, handwritten notes, vet records, a list of every dog he’d sheltered – names, ages, ailments, favourite toys.
On a folded sheet, dated years before, he had written:
> “Should anything happen to me, please never blame the dogs. They understand only affection. I took them in because no one else would. I pray someone will care for them when I’m gone.”
That note was framed. It hangs now in the local shelter’s adoption room.
Each dog found a home. Some with neighbours. Others with animal lovers who read the tale online. Shadow, the faithful Labrador, went home with Eleanor and her children.
“He sleeps by the door still,” she says. “As if awaiting Thomas’s return.”
Thomas was buried quietly, paid for by the community. Few attended, but many brought flowers – and several brought their new companions.
Thomas Wright is no longer discussed as the strange old man.
Now, he’s recalled as the man of the quiet heart, who loved without fanfare, who gave everything to creatures who began with nothing.
Flat 3B remains vacant. The landlord considered letting it, yet somehow, no signing ever occurs. Perhaps it’s the faint claw marks still visible on the floor? Or the photo frame left by the rescue group: Thomas, with the faintest smile, cradling four pups on his lap.
Some say, late at night, they still hear soft paws padding down the corridor. A gentle howl carried on the breeze.
But now, the sounds frighten no one.
They remind us here of love freely given, of sacrifice unseen. They remind us of a man we scarcely knew we lived beside.
And we make certain we remember him.
We judge too hastily. Often, the quietest souls harbour the deepest compassion. Behind closed doors, unseen kindnesses unfold. Never mistake silence for emptiness.