Sometimes, one has to do a job oneself if it is to be done properly.

The house had looked promising – on the market for years, home report on request only, limited pictures online. The estate agent had been downbeat when showing Max around Greysteer House, waiting in the draughty hallway while his potential buyer picked his way through shuttered rooms and underneath walls spattered with black mould. He had looked positively astonished when Max said he would be putting in an offer for the property.

Max had set up his Olivetti in one of the downstairs reception rooms – one of the only spaces where a peat fire really seemed to drive out the cold – and had waited for the house to tell its stories. He had waited a full month before deciding to take a more proactive approach to listening. The British Newspaper Archive, local historical societies, Facebook groups, even the original drainage blueprints for the house – none of these resources had uncovered the slightest hint of intrigue or criminality. Max found himself wondering how a house could have weathered two hundred years and not have taken on even the slightest echo of the paranormal. Autumn was overtaken by winter, and the Olivetti’s carriage return remained locked.