I stopped by the shattered large house.

Every night as I returned from work, I’d stop by the gigantic house in the countryside I’d always wanted to buy, ever since I came to Paris.

I lived in suburban Paris and worked in the middle of nowhere in a chemicals factory about twenty miles from where I lived, far away from city life. I always pictured my life in Paris as being glamorous before I left London, but Paris life was far from glitzy. I lived in an apartment that could barely contain me. My earning was modest, but every day, when I returned from work, I’d drive to the rickety big house, yearning to buy it.

Today was the same but this time, the woman selling the house was at the door too. I had arranged for a meeting with her, so I could see the house.

After exchanging pleasantries with the landlady, I decided to enter the house for the first time. The sign that said ‘For Sale’ was enveloped in multiple layers of mould and dust. I walked up to the door with the landlady behind me. I pushed the dead and rotten wooden door and entered the house. A strong musty smell seeped through my nostrils.

After a look round the house, I reached the front door where the landlady stood in fidgety silence.

“So,” She asked in a thick French accent, “You like the house?”

I nodded without replying.

“Why does nobody want this place?” I asked tonelessly.

Her twitchiness came to a drastic halt.

“Well, sir,” She hesitated, “Story has it that a twelve year old boy lived in this house alone after his mama and papa died. He wanted to be a chanteur…er, a singer. But when he went to Paris to join the theatre, all of the men threw him out, saying he was only good enough to feed pigs. So the boy came back here and killed himself because he never had a chance. Anyway, story says that for every resident in this house, they see the boy. And the boy sings. He sings a song. After he finishes his song, the listener dies.”

She paused after her impressive story.

Quickly, she toned her voice up and cheerily said, “Well, all of that isn’t true, this house is old but big, hey?”

The story made no difference to my longing to buy the house. The house needed me. It wanted me.

I asked the landlady if I could spend some time in the house alone and she pushed the keys into my palm and carefully shut the door behind her.

I decided to venture upstairs. As I went up, the mustiness concentrated even more. The stairs swayed slightly and creaked at even the slightest movement.

The rooms upstairs were even impressive than the bottom. I walked down the corridor, inspecting each spacious room, designing in my mind, what it would look like after I renovated it. Finally, I reached the end, to a very tiny door. Assuming it was a closet, I opened it and to my astonishment, found the biggest room of all. I tiptoed into that room when I saw the most horrific thing in the world.

Lying in the corner all crumpled and broken was the body of a pale ghostly twelve year old boy. I widened my eyes and stared at the boy. He lifted his head from his knees and suddenly, he started singing.

He sang a low French lament. It was pure. It sounded serene. The tune was very depressing and his expression was mournful. After what seemed like only a few minutes, the song ended. Everything came into focus. There was a strong moment of silence where I reflected back on my life as it fast-forwarded in my brain to the present. Even though the song lasted only a few minutes, it felt like an hour long relief. And then, the boy thrust his head back on his knees.

Next day in the news, the landlady read, “VISITOR TO HAUNTED HOUSE KILLED” and her mouth dropped further when shock ripped her heart and she read, “A twelve year old boy living close by the house claimed he saw no one enter the house to commit the crime” beside a picture of the twelve year old singer, eyes pointing up with cunning, his face contorted with malice.