The door to the attic is tucked into the corner, the room accessible by a staircase that you pull down from above. The air is already colder in the stairwell. I reach the top and turn on the lamp closest to the door, then step aside for Tracey.

There is only a tiny porthole window letting light into the room. I have covered the walls in posters of my favourite bands and there are bean bags to sit on. The Persian rug on the floor is an old one that my mother grew bored with and it is anchored down by an old coffee table I found in the basement. On it is a record player, album sleeves tossed about, lying where they fall when I rifle through them.

The far wall is lined with shelves and I have slowly pilfered books from my father’s study, the local library, school and second-hand shops to fill them. I have read and loved every single book in this room.

This is my space, all my taste, every inch of it reflecting my personality. I have never brought Eloise up here. I don’t think she would understand this side of me. She would prefer the fairy-lit brightness of my bedroom to this cold, dark space.

Tracey is walking around, taking in the bookshelves and the record sleeves.

“What do you think?”

“I love it! Did you do all of this yourself?”

“Yeah, this is like my private space. I don’t even think my parents have been up here in years. It wasn’t used for anything except storage, so I started out in one corner and slowly took over the rest of the space. The furniture is all old stuff that my parents don’t use anymore that I found in the basement. I like that it is at the top of the house, private, you know? A bit like a treehouse, but with electricity.”

I put the bottles on the table and drag the bean bags together, grab two blankets from the corner.

“Wow, this house is something else.”

“I guess. It has a weird vibe though. Sometimes it feels like…” I stop, knowing it sounds daft. I feel it the most up here in this space. The sense that the walls are inhaling and exhaling, expanding and contracting with every breath, and using me for oxygen.

“Feels like what?”

“Don’t laugh, but sometimes it feels like the house is alive, watching, listening, taking it all in.” My voice is low. “Stupid, I know, but it doesn’t feel like a happy house. It feels like a house plotting something.”

“They say houses can absorb the energy of those who live in them, so maybe there has been a tragedy here or something.”

“You know this will all be mine one day.”

“Sure, because you’re an only child.”