It does not take much to remain unseen in a house like this. A soft tread, a downcast eye, knowledge of the creaking stairs and loose floorboards that betray my presence. And the inhabitants, of course, so busy with their own lives – their troubles – their desires – so busy with themselves they do not notice the ones like me bearing witness from the shadows.

But I see them. I see it all. The things I am supposed to see – and the things that I am not. I see the flare of a cigarette lighter in a dark room, and the lipstick marks on a glass. I see the indentations on a pillow, the bloodstains on the sheets. I see furtive looks – trembling hands – clenched fists – tear-stained handkerchiefs.

It’s all there – the secrets of their lives – if you will only look.

Because a house like this has eyes.

I am the eyes of the house . . . and I am always watching.