A place to rent

We were on the hunt for a place to rent. The agent had told us about a house a few kilometers from our current flat, which was set to expire in a month. With rental agreements usually lasting a year, time was running out for us.

Both working as software engineers at a small IT firm, we commuted together. The downside was our low salaries; even combined, they barely covered our expenses. We were looking for a rental in a lower-middle-class area of the city.

“It’s ten thousand per month,” the agent said.

“Ten thousand?” I asked, astonished.

“Yes, ten thousand,” he repeated.

My wife and I exchanged surprised glances. This rate was significantly below the market value; in this area, rents typically started at fifteen thousand.

“Why is it so cheap?” I asked. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch,” the agent replied, then cleared his throat. “The owner is very religious and wealthy. He does a lot of charity work and doesn’t need the extra money.”

“Then why has it been empty for so long?” I pressed.

The agent hesitated, then said, “He’s simply not interested in making more money.”

His explanation didn’t fully make sense, but the low rent was too good to ignore.

Two weeks later, we began moving our belongings into the house. It was in disrepaircracked doors and windows, peeling paint, and cobwebs in every corner.

Our boss refused to grant us leave for the move.

“There’s too much work pending,” he said, though we knew it wasn’t true. Our tasks were minimal lately. Despite our frustration, we needed our jobs and didn’t argue.

From 9 AM to 5 PM, we were at the office. By 5:15 PM, we’d catch a bus home. By 5:45 PM, after changing into comfortable clothes, we’d start cleaning. My wife covered the cracks with old newspapers, and I scraped peeling plaster from the walls. By 10 PM, we’d call it a day. After four days of strenuous work, the flat was livable.

The house was isolated, the nearest neighbors about fifty meters away. A field lay in front of it. In the mornings, fitness enthusiasts ran around the ground, and in the evenings, children played cricket and football. Although one corner was a local garbage dump, it was on the opposite side. The breeze from the field fluttered the newspapers on our windows, but we soon adapted. The savings of ten thousand a month were worth it.

We didn’t own a fridge and had to be cautious with our grocery purchases. We made trips to the local shops three times a week. During one visit, we ran into an old school friend of my wife’s.

After catching up, she asked where we were staying. Her expression shifted from cheerful to alarmed.

“Why did you rent that house?” she asked, her voice trembling. She pulled my wife aside and continued, “Didn’t you check its history? The previous tenantsa family of fourwere found dead there. The owner says they committed suicide, but rumors say they were murdered.”

Her story shocked us. The house had been vacant for over a decade. We were speechless.

That evening, as we returned to the house, it was already dark. The door creaked ominously as I opened itsomething I hadn’t noticed before. My wife and I clung to each other, both nervous. We ate dinner in silence.

“Keep the light on tonight,” she said as we prepared for bed.

I agreed. The next morning, we left for work half an hour earlier than usual.

For a week, this routine continued. As the month ended, we reviewed our expenseselectricity, water, groceries, mobile recharges.

“That can’t be right,” she said, astonished. The figures showed we had saved fifteen thousand. We double-checked the numbers. They were accurate.

“That’s amazing,” she said. “We can turn off the lights now. We’ll save even more.”

That night, we switched off the lights. The room was pitch-dark when we heard a creaking sound.

“It’s just the wind through the window panes,” my wife said. “I’ll add more newspapers tomorrow. Go to sleep.”

We were both soon fast asleep, unaware of the creaking sound’s source.