The Boy in the Brickwork

The day of the accident, the sky held the color of a fading bruise. Mira was driving along the old coastal road, the wind whipping her hair, when a deer, startled from the ditches, bolted directly into her path. She swerved, the car careening off the asphalt and into a deep ravine, the metal groaning as it rolled. When she came to, slumped against the airbag, she felt a strange flutter in her belly, a quickening she couldn’t explain. At the hospital, the doctor’s words were a second shock: ‘You’re pregnant, about six weeks. And you’re incredibly lucky.’ Mira went home to her new flat, a narrow Victorian house converted into apartments, her body bruised and her mind reeling. She ran a bath, hoping the hot water would ease the ache in her bones. As she sank into the tub, she tried to process the day: the almost-death, the child growing inside her, the unfamiliar walls of her new home.

It was as the steam began to fog the mirror that the air changed. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood up, not with a chill, but with a prickling heat, as if she were standing too close to a fire. The bathroom felt close, the walls seeming to press in. Mira knew, with a sudden, primal certainty, that she was not alone. A deep sadness, ancient and heavy as wet earth, seeped into her, tugging at her heart. It wasn’t her own grief; it was something else, something that had been waiting. She swallowed, her voice a trembling whisper in the silent room. ‘I know someone’s here. Please… I’m exhausted. I almost died today. Can you just… give me a moment?’ The sadness surged, and Mira felt a spark of anger ignite within her. She was not going to be cowed in her own home. She pulled herself upright, water cascading off her skin, and walked directly through the oppressive feeling, through the center of the room where the sorrow seemed to cling. A wave of cold passed through her, and she felt a sudden, gut-wrenching guilt, as if she had betrayed something innocent. She collapsed onto the bathmat and wept, her tears mixing with the bathwater.

Mira never told anyone about that moment. She buried it deep, attributing it to shock and exhaustion. Weeks later, she gave birth to a daughter, Elowen. When she first brought the baby home, she insisted the flat felt different, lighter, as if some unseen presence was hovering protectively. She would swear she felt a gentle warmth near the crib, a soft hum when Elowen cried, and the inexplicable sense that the apartment was guarding them both. Elowen was a placid baby, only fussing when a specific person visited: a colleague of Mira’s, a man named Garrett. He was charming and helpful, always offering to watch the baby so Mira could rest. But whenever Garrett was there, Elowen would scream inconsolably. One evening, Garrett arrived to drop off some documents. He seemed agitated, his eyes darting around the living room. ‘Your apartment is drafty,’ he said, rubbing his arms. ‘And I could swear I heard a kid laughing last night. A boy, it sounded like. Also, I felt… I don’t know, like something kept kicking the foot of the bed.’ Mira felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. She looked at Elowen, who was staring intently at a corner of the ceiling, a small smile on her face. ‘It’s an old building,’ Mira said, her voice steady, but her eyes were on her daughter. ‘You should probably leave now, Garrett.’

After he left, Mira approached the corner where Elowen had been staring. She ran her hand over the wall, feeling the rough plaster. On a whim, she pulled away a loose piece of wallpaper, revealing old brickwork beneath. A faint, dusty outline was etched into the mortar, too regular to be natural. It looked like the shape of a small hand. That night, she researched the building’s history. In the local archives, she found a tragic entry: a boy named Tobias, aged seven, had died in this building in the winter of 1887, trapped in a chimney during a game of hide-and-seek. A sad, lonely death. Mira felt a shiver run down her spine. She realized that the spirit who had been with her since the bath, the one who had made her feel that terrible sadness, who had been so protective of Elowen, was the same boy who had died so alone. And Garrett, with his dismissive attitude and his rough way of handling the baby, had been deemed a threat. She looked at the faint handprint in the brick and made a decision. She would not try to banish him. She would let him stay, keeping watch over her daughter. For the first time, she felt that the flat, with its hidden resident, was truly the safest place for her child.

Years passed. Elowen grew, a bright child with an imaginary friend she called ‘Tommy.’ She would sit in her room, chattering away, and Mira often heard the sound of childish laughter echoing from the walls. Garrett came by once more, his face pale, muttering about a cold spot in the hallway. Mira politely but firmly asked him to leave, and he never returned. One winter evening, when Elowen was six, they were having a fire in the hearth. Elowen pointed at the chimney and said, ‘Tommy says he’s happy now. He says thank you for letting him be here. And he says to be careful around Mr. Garrett if he ever comes back.’ Mira felt a tear slide down her cheek. She looked up the chimney, where the bricks glowed orange, and whispered, ‘You’re welcome, little one. You’re always welcome here.’ And in the silence, she felt it again—a gentle, reassuring warmth, like a small hand pressed against her heart, finally at peace.