Orc Me Out

Chapter 1

MAYA

The morning ritual never changes. Same corner table at Brew & Bytes, same oat milk cortado, same worn leather journal where I pretend to write profound thoughts but mostly jot down grocery lists and complaint letters I'll never send.

My phone glides against the scarred wooden table. Text from my editor at Urban Pulse.

The cursor blinks mockingly in my Google Doc. Seven hundred words about neighborhood displacement, and I've managed exactly forty-three. All variations of Change is complicated and Housing costs are rising. Groundbreaking journalism, truly.

I take another sip of cortado and—

Thud.

The sound cuts through the café chatter like a dropped anvil. Deep. Resonant. Wrong.

"Did you hear that?" I ask Marcus as he wipes down the counter.

"Hear what?"

Thud.

This time, the businessman's coffee cup rattles against his saucer. The art student in the corner looks up from her MacBook, earbuds dangling.

"That." I point vaguely toward the street. "The...thumping."

Jeffrey shrugs. "Construction? Council's been promising to fix the water mains since Brexit."

Thud.

The rhythm's too regular for construction. Too deliberate. Like a heartbeat amplified through concrete.

My cortado has gone lukewarm. The foam art, a questionable attempt at a swan has devolved into beige sludge. I close my laptop with more force than necessary.

"See you tomorrow, Jeffrey."

"Same time, same table?"

"Always."

The morning air hits my face as I push through the café door.

London's perfected the art of being simultaneously gray and bright, like someone's adjusted the contrast settings on reality.

Two doors down, my building squats between Brew & Bytes and Mrs. Dan's flower shop.

Victorian brick facade, art deco lobby that's seen better decades, four floors of residents who nod politely in the lift and pretend not to hear each other's domestic dramas through paper-thin walls.

Thud.

Louder now. Much louder.

I fish for my keys while balancing laptop bag, journal, and the remains of my dignity. The building's entrance hall smells like floor polish and someone's overenthusiastic air freshener "Spring Meadow" that's never seen an actual meadow.

Thud.

The sound seems to be coming from everywhere. Radiating through the building's bones.

Mrs. Patterson from 3B emerges from the lift, clutching her tartan shopping trolley like a shield.

"Dreadful noise, isn't it?" She adjusts her glasses. "Started about an hour ago. I've phoned the council twice."

"Any idea what's causing it?"

"Urban decay, dear. Mark my words, it's the beginning of the end."

Mrs. Patterson's convinced everything's the beginning of the end. Last month it was the new bike lanes. Before that, the coffee shop's decision to stop serving proper tea.

The lift wheezes to life. Second floor. Third. Fourth. My floor.

Thud.

The sound's definitely stronger up here. It seems to pulse through the hallway carpet, up through my shoes, into my chest cavity.

Flat 4C. Home sweet cramped home. I juggle keys and bags while my phone rings again.

Reminder: Gentrification article due 3pm

Reminder: Therapy appointment tomorrow 2pm

Reminder: Mother's birthday next week (buy present!)

The parade of digital anxiety. I swipe them all away and unlock my door.

THUD.

Inside my flat, the sound transforms. Not just heard now, felt. The floorboards vibrate under my feet. My coffee mug on the kitchen counter trembles against the ceramic surface like it's trying to escape.

I drop everything by the door. Laptop bag slumps against the wall. Journal skitters across the hardwood floor, landing open to yesterday's entry: "Tuesday: Productive day planned. Will definitely finish article early and maybe reorganize spice rack."

The optimism of past-Maya always astounds me.

THUD.

The sound's rhythmic now. Precise. Every twelve seconds, I count. Like clockwork, if clockwork was designed by someone with a grudge against structural integrity.

My flat's a studio masquerading as a one-bedroom, which estate agents call efficiently designed and normal humans call expensive shoebox.

Kitchen alcove, living area that's really just a couch and coffee table pretending to be sophisticated, bedroom that fits a double bed if you don't mind climbing over it to reach the wardrobe.

But it's mine. Sort of. For as long as I can make rent.

THUD.

I press my ear against the wall that adjoins 4D. Mrs. Singh lives there. A retired librarian who waters her balcony plants with the dedication of someone tending a botanical garden. Definitely not the type to renovate with industrial equipment.

The wall vibrates against my cheek. The sound's not coming from her flat.

THUD.

Above me? 5C is directly overhead. Young couple, both work in tech, travel constantly. Their flat should be empty.

I grab a glass from the kitchen and press it against the ceiling. Old trick from university, it amplifies sound through solid surfaces. Nothing but the building's usual creaks and the distant hum of traffic.

THUD.

The glass nearly slips from my hand. Whatever's making this noise, it's not coming from above.

Or below.

Or beside.

It's coming from inside the walls.

My phone goes off. Another reminder.

Gentrification article: 5 hours remaining

Here I am, trying to write about displacement and urban change, while my own building produces sounds that belong in a horror film. Material for the blog, maybe. City Living Hack #48: When Your Home Starts Making Unexplained Noises, Panic Appropriately.

THUD.

I walk to the window, hoping for distraction.

The street below carries on with typical Tuesday indifference.

Delivery van double-parked outside the newsagent.

Schoolchildren in uniform trudging toward the bus stop with the universal expression of educational resignation.

Mrs. Dan's arranging chrysanthemums in her shop window.

Normal. Everything normal.

Except for the sound that's now synchronized with my heartbeat.

THUD.

My cortado from this morning sits abandoned on the kitchen counter, cold and reproachful. The foam art's completely dissolved now, leaving behind a beige pool that looks vaguely accusatory.

I should be writing. Deadline in four hours and thirty-seven minutes. The gentrification piece needs quotes, statistics, human interest angles. Real journalism, not blog posts about proper café etiquette and the optimal time to do laundry in shared facilities.

THUD.

But concentration's impossible when your home sounds like it's being slowly demolished from within.

I reach for my phone and scroll through contacts.

Who do you call about mysterious building noises?

Landlord's probably the logical choice, but Ms. Cavanaugh treats maintenance requests like personal affronts to her dignity.

Last time I reported a leaky tap, she spent twenty minutes explaining why modern tenants lack resilience.

THUD.

The sound's getting louder. Or maybe I'm getting more sensitive to it. Hard to tell the difference when anxiety's involved.

My laptop sits closed on the coffee table, cursor still blinking behind the screen.

Seven hundred words about neighborhood change.

Should be simple. I've lived in four different London boroughs in six years, watched rents climb while local businesses shuttered, seen entire streets transform from working-class communities into artisanal coffee wastelands.

But what's my angle? The question that's been haunting me for weeks. Every story needs an angle, my editor constantly reminds us. Can't just describe change, need to explain what it means.

THUD.

The coffee table vibrates. My closed laptop shifts slightly, like it's trying to escape.

Maybe this is my angle. The sounds buildings make when neighborhoods transform. The stress fractures in Victorian brick when modern life pushes too hard against historical foundations.

THUD.

Or maybe I'm overthinking things. Maybe it's just the heating system having a nervous breakdown.

I check the radiator in the bedroom. Stone cold. Central heating's been off since May.

THUD.

Back to the kitchen. I pour water into the kettle, need something warm to replace the abandoned cortado. The simple ritual usually calms my nerves—selecting the right mug, measuring tea leaves, timing the steep. Control in small doses.

The kettle trembles on the hob. Water sloshes against the sides.

THUD.

The sound seems louder now. More insistent.

I text back: I think you have the wrong person. I haven't contacted police about anything.

Response comes immediately: Are you sure? Our records show multiple calls from your number regarding unusual disturbances.

THUD.

The kettle's whistling now, but it sounds wrong. Too high-pitched. Too urgent.

I type: What kind of disturbances?

THUD.

The response takes longer this time: Perhaps we should discuss this in person. Are you available this afternoon?

The kettle's whistle becomes a shriek. I rush to turn off the hob, but my hand freezes over the knob.

Because the sound isn't coming from the kettle.

THUD.

It's coming from behind me.

I spin around, heart hammering wildly.

Nothing. Empty kitchen. Steam rising from the forgotten kettle like ghostly fingers.

THUD.

The sound reverberates through the floorboards, up my legs, into my spine. Whatever's happening, it's not supernatural. Buildings don't develop poltergeists. They develop structural problems, plumbing issues, neighbor disputes.

Neighbor disputes require documentation.

I pick up my phone and hit record, holding it toward the wall where the sound seems strongest. The app captures ambient noise of the traffic, my own breathing, the building's usual creaks. But when the next THUD comes, the audio levels barely register.

Brilliant. Either my phone's microphone is broken, or I'm losing my mind.

I receive another message from Detective Inspector Lowery: Ms. Ruiz, we really do need to speak. There have been reports.