Howard entered the building. The floors were bare boards, making every footstep he took sound hollow and distant. If he’d had any concerns there’d still be someone here, even at this late hour, the sight of the small reception area huddled in one corner, its shutters down and lights off swiftly put pay to them.

Before him, the corridor stretched twenty feet or so further into the building, then opened out at the foot of a wooden staircase which snaked its way to the upper floors. This building had been a surgery once. Howard felt the déjà vu rekindle once more, as it had done in so many of the places he’d visited these past few months.

He made his way to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. He could see to the top of the building, four floors up, where a glass dome would, ordinarily, let in light for the patients. Howard didn’t need to go up, however. The door he was looking for stood just to the right of him. There was a sign attached to it, but he would have known it was the right room, whether it’d been there or not; he could feel it.

Howard knocked just under the wooden plaque that read ‘Waiting Room’ and waited. He knew his manners. He knocked once more, and when still no reply came, he tried the handle, which turned smoothly as if it had been well maintained.

The room beyond was expansive. Two large rugs partially covered the wooden floor, and several papers lay forgotten on a table toward the far end. The walls of the room were wood panelling; so much wood, something inside of him was being weighed down at its sight. Howard closed the door behind him, checked for a lock, and when he saw none, took several door jamb’s out of his bag and pressed them firmly into place in the gap below the door. He repeated this action with the two other doors leading out.

Howard switched on the main light and stood looking into the room. After a moment, he reached into his jacket and retrieved a folded piece of paper, which he unfolded and held up in front of him. The room depicted on the paper was similar, but not exact. In truth, they rarely were. Howard smiled at the signature in the corner of the picture. T. P. Cage. Whoever he, or she, was, they had been here once, sitting and sketching the walls, the windows, the fireplace. He felt a connection to T. P. Cage.

*

In the beginning, the book had come to him. He knew this would be hard to argue, since he was the one who’d cleaned the chimney in the house he’d been renting and felt the leather binding soft against the age worn bricks.

He’d also been the one to look through its pages, wondering over the pictures of the different rooms that had been drawn within. Some were hurried, some were meticulous, most were in-between the two.

All had the same two common denominators, however. They were all waiting rooms, and they all contained the boy, either stood in a corner, or sitting on the floor.

Whilst the drawings were no masterpieces, Howard could see the boy had black hair, a skinny body and wore simple, dirty, clothes. At first, he’d searched online to find out more on T. P. Cage, but when that failed, he resorted to libraries. When that also drew a blank, he’d set out to find the rooms himself. His girlfriend had supported him at first; but that had soon changed to questioning, and finally ridiculing before they had gone their separate ways. Now, he was on his own, travelling the country, asking anyone and everyone if they recognised any of the rooms. He’d set up his own web page, placed the drawings on there, and ran ads to get them in front of anyone who might help.

He received few responses, but the ones he got, he followed up. The first ten suggestions had been duds, and Howard was close to giving up when, at last, the eleventh room changed everything.

He had been in the eleventh room before. It had been in Kent, a small building, now derelict, its windows broken, its heart removed. Something had remained, however. He had walked into the room, soaring belief in his heart, and just cried. Wept openly, screamed and punched the floor. He had been right about the rooms, about the drawings. He had been right about everything.

Howard stayed in that eleventh room for two nights, setting up a small tent there, watching, not sure of what he’d see.

*

Since then, he’d found seven more rooms, had waited seven more times. Now this was the final room, the final scene.

Howard went to each of the windows and shuttered them, the heavy wood sliding into place. Then he went to the light switch and flicked it, sending the room into darkness. Howard retrieved his flashlight from his pocket and twisted it on. The beam barely cut through the black, but it was enough for him to search his backpack. Within seconds, he withdrew a package wrapped in bubble wrap.

Carefully he removed the elastic bands and the wrap dropped away, revealing the base brass of an oil lamp. He found his matches, lit the wick at the top of the base and placed the glass top over the flame. Howard placed the lamp in the middle of the floor. He set up six other similar lamps, until he was encircled by them.

*

On the second night in the eleventh room Howard had been woken by the noise of something scratching his tent. He had held his breath and watched, in what little light there’d been, the movement of the material as someone repeatedly ran their hand down it.

In truth, he’d been so scared he’d wet himself. It was involuntary and uncomfortable, but still he’d waited until the noise had stopped before he’d changed. He didn’t unzip the tent entrance until the sun had come up the next morning and was relieved to discover he was alone. However, in a corner of the room, the corner the boy had been drawn in, sat an oil lamp. Howard had picked it up and put it into his bag. This had been the unsettling routine in each of the rooms he’d subsequently stayed in. The boy would attempt to reach him before leaving an oil lamp in his place.

*

The last room would be different. There was no more hiding, he’d have to meet the boy.

At eight fifteen pm, someone tried to open the main door; Howard’s heart jumped in his chest.

“Bloody doors!” he heard an older man say, before a bang indicated it’d been kicked in frustration. Howard listened as, in turn, he’d tried the other doors, before leaving, muttering under his breath.

Later, at nine twenty-seven, a noise sounded in the far corner, where the boy was in the picture. The light from the oil lamps didn’t stretch that far, so Howard couldn’t tell what had made it.

“Hello,” he called out. There was no answer.

Ten fifty-four pm. Something tipped-tapped down the sides of the chimney and hit the floor beneath. Again, Howard called out, and again there was nothing.

Fifteen minutes past midnight. A sigh. Unmistakeable. Something was here with him.

“Hello,” he called one more time. There was a movement from the corner. A dragging movement. Howard followed it as it moved around the dark edge of the room, getting closer and closer. He tensed. Something was coming for him, finally.

“Father?” said a boy’s voice. “Father, no more.”

“I’m not your father,” Howard said.

“Wh…where is he?”

“He’s gone.”

“Dead?”

“I think so.”

No sooner had Howard uttered the words than the boy charged at him through the darkness, into the centre of the room, a blaze of arms and legs and rage, his face complete hatred. And the cry, the boy’s cry of hatred was gut wrenching.

He lashed out at Howard, who found he was able to predict the boys every move and was able to hold him at bay. As the two struggled, Howard looked at the scars on the boy’s arms and recognised them as his own.

He fell away, and the boy slumped in front of him, weeping.

“He hurt you,” Howard said. “You travelled with him, and he hurt you.”

“I never knew what he wanted me to do.”

“And then you saw an opportunity of freedom, and you took it.”

The boy looked up. Now there was just a single oil lamp lit in the room, bloodstained and dented. Howard picked it up.

“You took it and freed yourself, but it was only a physical freedom. Until now, you’d blamed yourself. But now I remember everything. I remember the marks.”

The boy called Howard looked at the man named Howard.

“I didn’t want to do it,” the youngster said.

“I know. But everything’s okay, now. I understand.”

“Don’t leave me,” the boy said, “I don’t want to be left alone.”

Howard stroked the boys matted hair. “I won’t,” he replied, “I never will, again.”