In the town of Molton, North Yorkshire, population 232, there was a population of 233.
Thomas knew this.
No one else did.
All they knew was there was an Empty House on a quiet street where the lights would flicker on late at night, where soft music could be heard through the walls of the adjoining houses, where groceries and deliveries would be brought to, but no one would ever answer the door. There would always be a tip left, of exactly £4, on the doorstep. And the food would be left, and no one would collect it, and when the person delivering left, or they turned away a little too long, it would be taken, the only proof it ever existed being the faint scent of the order, the receipt, and the sudden locking of the door that no one could even hear close.
Thomas, 23 years old, would then take his food to the kitchen, where he would eat alone in cleanliness; he always took pride in how sparkling every dish and glass and mug and surface was. When it was ready for discard, he would leave a small black tote on the very same doorstep and would collect it after the binmen had cleared the waste away, or after a kindly neighbour had taken the delicately packed bag and thrown it in their own bin. Though, in recent years, as the elder ladies grew too pained, or the elder men too tired, or the young too rude, that had become exceedingly rare.
People had tried to set up cameras before, in a vain attempt to capture a glimpse of the owner of the Empty House. The mystery of the owner hadn't been solved, as when the camera operators were asleep or absent, the cameras had died.
There was one time, Thomas remembered, that a boy had ruined his lovely, neat little tote, cutting open the bags with kicks and stomps, waste thrown across the street like leaves in Autumn. Thomas thought he had enough time to pick up the waste. He was wrong.
When James Balker had stomped out the bin of the Empty House, cursing the ghost that lived, or rather, haunted, the Empty House, he didn't realise he was not cursing the ghost, but condemning himself. He walked a few doors down and around the corner to the alley, before deciding to not go back home, but to stick around. Maybe he would kick the door in, scream into the Empty House's empty spaces, and burn the Empty House down so no one would ever speak of the goddamned place again. When he turned the corner, he saw a man.
Thomas had looked up at the boy, not having realised he was there, his long hair covering his periphery for a moment, before the boy clocked that he had been seen by the owner of the Empty House, and bolted. Guilt still ached in Thomas' heart, as he frantically gathered the litter, placed it back inside the tote in a fresh bag he'd carried out with him, and swiftly locked the door behind him again. He wished he hadn't just killed the boy.