“The building is a little shabby, but the attic storage is fairly clean. Well, actually, I haven’t been there in six months. But it should be good enough for storage. The building will be renovated, but not for a few years,” he said apologetically, and launched into a long harangue that there was a great desire among the city’s residents to develop the area where the property stood, to attract more businesses, to establish themselves in the area, and to create attractive spaces to foster the tourism industry. This would require building more restaurants, creating commercial space, light-filled offices. But also residential apartments.

“Yes, but it will take time, as I said, so you can use the storage space however you want. There are hardly any other renters, just a music club, an old pool hall, things like that. Did I give you the key?”

Jana nodded, thanked him, and leaving the apartment in Kneippen, drove directly to the industrial district and Garvaregatan 6.

* * *

The storage space was surprisingly small.

But she recognized it. It looked exactly how it had been presented in the ad. The wooden bench and the filing cabinet with a padlock. The light yellow concrete walls.

It smelled damp, musty and stuffy.

She put the box she was carrying on the floor, thought better of it, and placed it on the wooden bench instead. She felt a thin thread against her neck and swept away the remains of a spiderweb with her hand.

She took a deep breath and convinced herself that the small space would be enough. There was no other storage space for rent, not near her apartment, and definitely not on such short notice.

She got the rest of the boxes from her car and lined them up on the bench. She noted that she would have to get plastic bins of some sort because the boxes would surely absorb the moisture.

Then she heard it.

A sound, as if someone were knocking.

She froze, holding her breath and listening.

There it was again. Someone knocking.

It was Saturday afternoon and the building seemed empty. No bands rehearsing, no association meetings. No residents—the place was too run-down for that. But someone was knocking.

She went to the door and listened. She heard it again. She waited a few seconds, then walked with quick, silent steps out of the storage area and stopped at the stairs, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from.

But there weren’t any other doors on that floor.

She took another step down the stairs. And one more.

The knocking became quieter. She went back up to the storage area and stood against the wall across from the door, pressing one ear against the cool concrete, holding her breath.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was coming from the pipes. Someone or something was knocking on them.