So I’m skint, right? Proper skint. My last twenty quid went on a train ticket to the middle of nowhere because some bloke named Huw Llewellyn-Q promised me fifty a day just to sit in his creepy manor and water a single bonsai. I get off at Gwaun-Creigiau station, no lights, no taxis, just sheep giving me the side-eye. Huw meets me in a Land Rover held together by rust and positive thinking. First thing he says: “Don’t move the mirrors.” Cool, mate, I wasn’t planning on redecorating your haunted dump.
The house is called Plas-y-Bendith, which Google Translate cheerfully tells me means “Mansion of Blessing.” Google’s a liar. The place leans like it’s drunk, windows set all uneven, like eyes that can’t focus. Huw hands me a hand-drawn map—looks like a kid’s doodle of a pizza sliced weird. “Follow the bagua,” he says, tapping the paper. “Keep the fire corner fiery, the water corner wet, or she’ll sulk.” He means the house. I laugh, he doesn’t. He leaves before sunset, tyres spitting gravel like the drive’s trying to eat him alive.
Night one: I’m microwaving beans when the walls creak. Not old-house creak, more like someone stretching after a long nap. I blame the wind. Wales has aggressive wind. I eat, I Netflix, I crash on the sofa because the bedrooms smell like wet gravestones. At 3:07 a.m. something tugs my blanket. I figure it’s a dream until I open my eyes and see the bonsai hovering two feet off the windowsill, dirt raining like tiny meteors. I scream, the plant drops, pot cracks. Great, there goes my deposit.
Morning, I try to fix the mess. I sweep the soil into a pile, but the pile moves. Little spirals, like someone’s drawing yin-yang symbols with a ghost finger. I remember Huw’s pizza map. The bonsai sits in the “wood” zone—east, health and family. I shove it back, angle the broken pot so the tree leans toward the window, proper feng shui style. Instantly the air feels warmer, like the house just sighed, relieved. I tell myself it’s placebo, but my arms are goosebumped.
I ring Huw. No signal. The manor’s Wi-Fi is named “Chi-Spyder” and the password’s eight trigrams copied off a Taoist coin. I get online, post in a forum: “House moving my stuff, lol.” Someone called DragonGate88 replies within seconds: “Leave NOW. Bagua broken = gate open. Shadows eat luck.” I laugh-cry, then notice the mirror in the hallway’s tilted. I straighten it. Bad move.
Day two, the rooms swap places. Not even joking. I walk out of the kitchen into what yesterday was the lounge, but now it’s a bedroom with a four-poster coffin—I mean bed—draped in black silk. The ceiling’s lower, wallpaper’s different, smells like incense and old pennies. I backtrack, corridor’s longer, lights flickering Morse code. My phone compass spins like a drunk bee. I puke in what I hope is still the toilet corner.
I find the bagua map again, but the sectors slid. Fire’s now where Water should be—cauldron above the fish tank, brilliant. I drag the sofa to the correct spot, wedge red cushions around, light every candle I can nick. Smoke alarms start singing Gregorian chant. I ignore, keep rearranging. Mirrors face windows, windows face mirrors, infinity tunnel of me panicking. Somewhere inside the reflections, a second me lags half a second behind, smirking.
Night two, the shadows run out of walls. They pool on the floor, thick as tar, climb my legs like cold leggings. I remember my nain (gran) saying salt and iron, so I raid the kitchen. Pour salt along every doorway, whack a horseshoe above the front entrance. The shadows hiss, retreat a bit, but regroup at the ceiling corners, plotting. My battery’s at 9%, torch app dying, and the house keeps shifting, corridors narrowing to shoulders-width, exhaling like it’s trying to digest me.
I trip into the library—never seen this room before. Thousands of books, all same title: “Adjusting the Dragon’s Breath.” I open one, pages blank except one sentence repeated: “Guest becomes guardian, guardian becomes gate.” My name’s handwritten on the next page, fresh ink, still wet. Behind me, the shelves slam shut like dominoes, pushing me toward a desk with a single drawer. Inside: a compass, not north-pointing but chi-pointing, needle spinning toward my chest.
I grab it. The house freezes, like pausing a video. I feel the walls listening. I walk where the needle trembles least—ends up at the bonsai corner. The tree’s grown overnight, trunk thick as my arm, roots bust through floorboards into the earth below. Compass steadies when I stand there. I get it: the house needs a living anchor, something rooted in both worlds. Huw wasn’t hiring a sitter; he was hiring sacrifice-lite.
I’m properly angry now, which beats scared. I wedge the compass into the soil like a flag. Whisper the only Welsh phrase my nain taught me: “Dim mwy o gysgodion.” No more shadows. The bonsai shivers, leaves rustle like applause. Wind howls through broken roof tiles, but inside, air settles, balanced. Rooms slide back to original spots, mirrors crack but stay put. Shadows shrink till they’re just normal dusk. My phone buzzes—signal back. Text from Huw: “Job done, transfer sent. You can leave.”
I don’t trust the drive, so I walk to the station. Sheep still side-eye me, but softer now. Train pulls in, doors open like arms. I check my bank: five hundred quid bonus. I should feel chuffed, but my reflection in the window keeps staring a second too long. Somewhere in the glass, the bonsai’s silhouette stands where my heart should be, roots tangled round ribs. The train starts moving; the compass in my pocket spins again, needle pointing not north, not home, but back toward Plas-y-Bendith. Guess the house got its balance, and I got its shadow. Fair trade, innit?