Alright, picture this: me, Danny Patel, twenty-eight, zero savings, and a job that pays in coffee beans and compliments. The landlord—some uncle twice-removed—offers me the top floor of 13 Blackthorn Lane for two hundred quid a month. The catch? The loo growls at night and the hallway smells like boiled coins. I say yes before he finishes the sentence.
First night, I’m unboxing my life when I spot this dusty round mirror propped behind the water heater. Frame’s cracked, glass’s wavy like it’s had one too many, but something about it feels… bossy. I hang it opposite the window ‘cos that’s the only nail that doesn’t fall out. Big mistake. The moment it’s up, the flat goes dead quiet, like someone hit mute on the universe. Even the fridge stops humming to listen.
Next morning I wake up with a crick in my neck and a craving for rice wine I’ve never tasted. My phone’s gallery is full of selfies I did NOT take—same angle, same freaky green filter, same shadow reaching over my shoulder. I chuck the mirror into the cupboard, but the door swings open straight away, polite as a butler saying, “After you.”
Enter Mrs. Lim from the ground floor. She’s ninety, smells of star anise, and has a cat named Szechuan who walks like he’s wearing tiny Timberlands. She takes one look at my hallway and hisses, “Your mirror swallowed the mouth of qi. No wonder the stairs feel tired.” I laugh ‘cos stairs don’t have feelings, right? She jabs a bony finger at the takeaway leaflet stuck on my mat. “Feng-shui master, twenty quid, cash. You call. Now.”
I ring the number thinking it’s a prank. Guy answers, “Master Zhao’s Mobile Geomancy, we come, we shimmy, we fix.” Hour later, Zhao rolls up in a van painted with yin-yang pizzas. He’s wearing neon trainers and a T-shirt that says ‘Got Qi?’ I like him already.
Zhao waddles in, compass the size of a dinner plate, stops dead at the mirror. “Oi, that’s a Chongsha portal. Reflects back the bad and keeps the good for rent.” He draws a red dot on the wall, another on my forehead, then makes me spin three times while he chants what sounds like takeaway order numbers. Szechuan watches, unimpressed.
“Problem,” Zhao declares, “mirror’s glued to a ley line, but the line’s knotted. Like earbuds in pocket of universe.” He says the building used to be a silk workshop; workers dipped dye at night, died young, got buried under the patio. Their restless mojo’s been surfing the qi, and my mirror’s the new surfboard. Great, I’m Airbnb for ghosts.
Plan: move mirror to the garden, bury it under three spoons of sea salt, one of sugar, and a chicken nugget for courtesy. Then stick a bagua mirror (the one with eight trigrams) above the front door to bounce the nasties next door. I ask why I should punish the neighbours; Zhao shrugs, “Better them than you, innit.”
We lug the thing downstairs. Every step the mirror shows us a different hallway: one with red lanterns, one on fire, one carpeted with teeth. I nearly drop it when I see myself in a version wearing a Qing dynasty ponytail, mouthing “Help.” Zhao slaps me. “Don’t lock eyes, that’s how it swaps you.”
Garden’s a square of weeds and a plastic gnome giving us the finger. We dig, hit concrete. Zhao curses in Cantonese, then smiles. “Concrete means someone already tried. We go up, not down.” He points to the roof. Of course. Why be normal?
Up the fire escape, wind whipping like it owes us money. Zhao produces two red ribbons, tells me to tie one round the mirror, one round my wrist. “So it knows you’re the landlord.” We heave the mirror onto the chimney stack. Suddenly the city skyline wobbles, glassy ripples racing across roof tiles. The mirror’s hungry, trying to slurp the whole view.
I hear silk looms clacking, smell indigo dye, feel fingers pricked by needles. The workers’ voices pile up: “Cold… stitches… unfair wage…” Zhao yells over the noise, “Tell them they’re paid!” I shout the first thing that comes: “National minimum wage backdated plus holiday pay!” The air stills, like the ghosts pause to check the maths. Then—whoosh—the ribbons snap tight, mirror face clouds over, and the chimney brick turns warm.
We duct-tape the bagua mirror to the TV aerial for height advantage. Zhao burns incense sticks that smell like Spotify ads. He claps once, says, “Done. Qi’s flowing smoother than takeaway delivery on a Tuesday.” My phone buzzes—bank app, finally, my overdue invoice paid. Coincidence? Maybe. I’ll take it.
That night the flat smells of nothing, which is glorious. The fridge sings, the loo stays quiet, and Szechuan curls on my lap instead of plotting my demise. Through the window I glimpse the rooftop bagua mirror catching moonlight, winking like it knows a secret. I wink back. We’re even, for now.
But here’s the kicker: next morning there’s a new mirror in the hallway, smaller, fancier, reflecting a corridor that isn’t mine. And on the floor, a single silk thread, still damp with dye. Looks like the workers want a sequel. Fine by me—Master Zhao’s on speed-dial, Mrs. Lim’s got more red dots, and I’ve learned the first rule of city feng-shui: if your rent’s cheap, the ghosts are working overtime. Just make sure you negotiate back pay before they unionise.