text: It started with an advert in a newsagent window; an off-white A4 piece of paper, hanging forlornly by a single strip of tape in one corner, the other three dry and useless. It caught my eye as I stood debating whether I could afford the extra 30 pence for a loaf of bread that wouldn’t taste like cardboard. The paper was crinkled through weeks of exposure to condensation. Flowery cursive bled down the page. It asked for a reliable and trustworthy candidate to take a friendly Alsatian on short walks around the neighbourhood, twice daily. The job paid barely anything but that was better than nothing. I was a recent graduate unable to find work. Entry level positions demanding 5 years’ experience were a bridge that I could not cross. I lived in a “studio” apartment, rent in arrears, that was in reality little more than a single room with a bed that folds up to create extra space for dining and socialising. I hadn’t folded it up for some time. Something about the advert called to me. Perhaps it was the ink that bled as though crying black tears in woe of having never been read. Perhaps it was the question of the cost of bread and where I sit on the scale of inedible to luxury and realising at once that even inedible is too rich for me. I peeled the tape that affixed the advert to the window, took it home, and dialled the number. His name was Mr Adams. He was 85-years-old, he said, and the dog Charlie, who had belonged to his late wife, was now too large and energetic for him to handle. We spoke for a while, about my credentials, about my life. He seemed friendly enough, and when he offered me the job on the spot I did not hesitate to accept. Mr Adams lived alone, dog excluded, in a small bungalow at the end of a quiet lane in a dull and lifeless suburb of Manchester. It was two bus rides away, which I had grumbled at, deliberately and vocally, upon our first meet. Mr Adams offered to compensate me for my bus fare, which I gladly accepted. He was a nice man, short and round in the face, hair grey like old snow. He smelled of mould. Charlie was as described: large and energetic. We took walks around the neighbourhood and to a nearby park. Mr Adams didn’t seem too close to him, but yet could not bare to give him up. A month into the job I saw Mr Adams for the last time. He gave me a spare key, and left a credit card in a dish on the coffee table. It was mine to use, he had said, and would be topped up each week with my wages. I was free to help myself to the various kitchen victuals, but I must replace what I consume. It was then that I should have walked away. I wish I’d walked away. In the days and weeks that followed, Mr Adams left me notes of increasing peculiarity. Little oddities, requests and favours written in an unfamiliar hand. The carefree handwriting of the advert was in stark contrast to the crooked and deliberate lettering on these notes, as though Mr Adams had written them under duress. The lines were thicker, harder. They requested little things at first. To buy extra dog food. To clean the house every Monday and Friday. I was promised additional pay for this latter job, which I accepted. It was clear that Mr Adams no longer lived at the address, and so there was little cleaning to be done. It were as though he only visited every now and then to leave me these notes. I was soon left a note telling me to never go down into the cellar. Truth told, I never knew the house had a cellar at all until that note. I found the cellar door beneath the rug in the living room. It was bolted shut. It was also about this time that Mr Adams asked me to change my time walking Charlie. I should go much earlier in the morning, and then again much later at night, while the sun was set and there were fewer people around. I thought this odd, if a little cruel on Charlie, but I obliged all the while. The house began to smell horribly of sulphur. A new note asked me to clean the house with increasing regularity but no matter how much bleach I used the scent always seemed to linger. It was around this time that Mr Adams requested that I spend the night, just once or twice a week. He told me in this note to keep the curtains drawn, to never answer the door, and to go to bed promptly at 10pm. I did as instructed, feeling a little uneasy about the arrangement but glad to be staying somewhere a little more spacious. Charlie soon started acting out. He would refuse to go for walks, and would growl angrily when I went near him. He scratched incessantly at the rug in the living room. A short while after Charlie was gone. Mr Adams explained in a note that I wouldn’t need to walk him any longer, but he would keep paying me if I followed his instructions. I spent longer and longer in the house then. I was dizzy with the stench of bleach and sulphur. My daily cleaning was unable to rid the house of the foul odour that seemed to cling to the walls like a shadow. I then began hearing voices. At first it was just at night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep. Unable to sleep. It was a soft whimpering. I went downstairs, the first time, and with each step it became louder and louder. It sounded like Mr Adams. It sounded like he was in the house and crying. At the foot of the stairs I turned into the living room and saw the shape of a man hunched over in the chair by the window. His head was in his hands and his shoulders were trembling. I flicked on the light and the shape disappeared. I didn’t sleep much after that night. But yet I didn’t go home. Instead I waited at Mr Adams’ house. I kept the curtains closed and the door locked and never did I see him but the notes kept appearing. It were as though he was living in the house with me, unseen. The whimpering at night became louder and soon trickled into day. I began to hear words, asking for help and pleading for forgiveness. I was drunk on the smell and the never-ending voices. And then I began to hear scratching from beneath the living room floor. I pulled back the rug and pressed my head against the cellar door. I could hear movement. Feet shuffling about beneath me. It was Mr Adams. All this time he was living in the cellar. It was bolted shut but he must have had a way. I dragged as much furniture as I could and covered the cellar door, locking him in. That night I heard the crying again. I walked downstairs as before and as before I saw the shape in the chair by the window. I shouted to him, to Mr Adams, to stop toying with me. The shape lifted its head from its hands and I saw that it was not Mr Adams. It was a younger man. I flicked on the light and this time the figure did not disappear but remained in the chair looking right at me. Eyes wet, tears running down anguished face, the figure in the chair was me. I bolted from the house as quick as I could, screaming, screaming at the top of my voice for help. It was then that I was taken in by a neighbour, to whom I told my story. He went to the house to check, and a little while later he returned with the police. I was taken away. They interviewed me then, about the body of Mr Adams that they had found in his cellar, along with his dog Charlie. They asked me why I did it. They presented me with evidence, of CCTV footage of me using Mr Adams’ credit card to buy food and drink. My solicitor instructed me to answer all questions with “No comment.” No comment. No comment. No comment. No comment. But I have been in this cell for nearly 18 hours and I can still hear the voices. I told him that I cannot keep silent and so he instructed me to write a letter. This letter. And so this is my confession. I do not know why I did what I did. I do not know how. Please, please just make the voices stop.