Then he settled beside the hearth, leant back on the couch and presented the soles of his shoes to the fire. He congratulated himself: a house like this, for a minimal rent… The brandy was excellent, the fire was taking the chill out of the air and after the morning’s exercise and the afternoon’s unexpected events he felt almost light-headed. He could feel the heat lapping around his ankles, spreading out into the rest of the room; the crackles of the flames were accompanied by the roar of air in the chimney and the groans of old walls settling. The joists overhead murmured a little as the warm air reached them. As Morton’s eyes began to close he heard a long chain of thuds along the floor, approaching him, and he jolted upright, his heart in his mouth, half expecting to see someone there. His eyes took a moment to focus, and for an instant he thought he saw a dark blur pass and dissolve into nothing before he could blink. His heart skipped a beat. But of course there was as no-one. It must have been the wood shifting in the joints between the boards; he’d heard other old houses make noises that were uncannily like voices or footsteps. He relaxed, tried to chuckle, and let his head fall back against the corner of the couch. At the same time the leather armchair opposite him, across from the chessboard, gave a sigh, as though someone had settled into it.

Excerpt taken from A Study in Black and White by Bridget Collins, the first in the wonderfully creepy short story collection, The Haunting Season.