Right, so I heard this story about Arthur Whitby. Happened round here in England, actually, in this quiet suburban neighbourhood – you know the sort, all neat front gardens and neighbours giving a proper nod over their morning cuppa. But there was this one flat in Oakview House, not posh mind you, just a bit weathered with ivy on the bricks and that squeaky shared postbox. Thing was, everyone knew Arthur lived there.
Been part of the community twenty years easy, Arthur. Always polite, mind, would give a tip of his cap in the hall, maybe a quiet smile if the sun was out. But that was it. No chit-chat at the bus stop, no popping round for a brew. Top floor flat. No family anyone knew about. No visitors, hardly any post, no hobbies visible from the street.
*For illustrative purposes only*
What you *couldn’t* miss, though, was the racket coming from his place.
Started soft. Bit of a shuffle, a tap-tapping like claws on wood. Then these low whines, long and mournful some nights, made you stop dead thinking someone was hurt. Other times? Just frantic scratching at the skirting boards or the door. Proper unsettling. One bloke down the pub swore blind he heard a howl late one night gave him chills. Ice down the spine.
Folks tried to be decent. «He’s getting on,» they’d say. «Maybe he’s got one of those big tellies blaring away.» Took the mick a bit, saying he’d gone right into horror films.
But the jokes dried up. The noises got weirder, less predictable.
Imogen – lovely woman, two kids – slipped a note under his door: «Dear Mr. Whitby, hope you don’t mind us saying, we’re a bit concerned. If you need a hand, let us know? Only, the children are struggling to sleep with the noise at night. Any chance it could be quieter?»
Not a peep back.
Her neighbour, Geoffrey, gave a knock one afternoon. Arthur opened the door just a sliver. Looked peaky, proper tired eyes. Geoffrey tried asking if he was alright, but Arthur just mumbled something and shut the door softly.
Talk started then, proper gossip. «Bit off his rocker, poor chap,» one whispered. «Reckon he’s got someone stashed in there, or worse,» said another. «Go on, it’s hoarding. Pets, definitely pets. Illegal breeding maybe, that sort.»
All talk, though. Couldn’t prove a thing. Flat stayed locked. Blinds always down. Every time the noise kicked up, someone grumbled, but nowt changed.
Then, late November, it all shifted.
Started with… nothing.
No sign of Arthur coming or going. No footsteps overhead. No strange screeches hitting you at three AM.
Bit of a relief for some, honestly.
But three nights in, the noise came back – ten times worse.
Gnashing. Scratching. Howls that echoed down the landing, coming right up through the floorboards. «Sounded like something was trying to burn through the wood to get out,» Imogen reckoned later, her voice shaky.
By the seventh day, Geoffrey and another bloke, Marcus, had had enough. Proper hammered on Arthur’s door. Not a sound. Did it again, louder. Still silent.
That’s when they rang the police.
*For illustrative purposes only*
When the police got in, what they found stopped everyone dead.
Place was dark, felt damp. Stank like something had… gone off. Furniture turned over, wallpaper peeling, the floor scattered with shredded blankets and bits of cardboard.
But that wasn’t the real shocker.
It was the dogs.
Eighteen of them.
A few gave a weak woof. Some limped towards the open door, ribs showing through scruffy fur. Others didn’t budge—curled tight in corners or squashed under the little kitchen table.
And right there, in the middle of it all, laid out peaceful on his old mattress? Arthur.
Eyes shut, hands folded on his chest, like he was having a kip. But he’d gone.
Coroner figured he’d slipped away in his sleep about six days before. Probably his heart.
But the dogs had stayed. Starving. Scared. Just… waiting.
*For illustrative purposes only*
Wasn’t a house of horrors. It was a refuge. Arthur’s own quiet project, built up over years. The scratches? Dogs playing, or scared. The howling? Animals who lost the only bloke who cared for them.
Arthur had been rescuing strays.
Not one or two. Dozens, over the years.
Some had been hurt. Others dumped like rubbish. Arthur took them all in—fed them on his pension, slept on the floor when the bed was full of pups, cut up old blankets for them to curl up in.
Never told a soul. Reckoned if they knew, the council or someone would take his dogs away.
So without him, they stayed. Didn’t understand. Scratched at the door. Cried through the dark. Tried to rouse him.
Never left his side.
Word shot round the street like wildfire.
People who’d whispered about the «oddball» stood quiet on the pavement. The guilt hung thick in the air.
Folks cried. Others offered help straight off.
Imogen got collections going that week. Blankets, kibble, cages, cash donations poured in. Local RSPCA lot sent a crew, checked the dogs over and cared for them. Unbelievably, every single one pulled through.
One golden retriever – neighbours called him Shadow later – wouldn’t leave the flat for two days. He’d been curled up by Arthur’s bed. Had to be carried out gentle.
But Arthur’s story wasn’t quite done.
*For illustrative purposes only*
A volunteer found a little locked box under his bed. Inside were scribbled notes, vet bills, even a list with every dog he’d ever rescued – names, ages, their little problems, even their favourite toys.
On one folded bit of paper, dated back years, he’d written:
*»If it happens I go, please don’t blame the dogs. Only know love, they do. I took them ’cause no one else would. Just hope someone does the same when I’m gone.»*
They framed that note. Sits in the shelter’s adoption room now.
Each one of Arthur’s dogs found a home. Some neighbours took them. Others heard the story online. Shadow? Lives with Imogen and her kids now. «Still sleeps by the door,» she says. «Like he’s expecting Arthur back.»
We put Arthur to rest, quiet little do, paid for by everyone around. Only a few turned up, but they brought flowers. Lots brought their new dogs.
No one calls Arthur Whitby «that strange old bloke» anymore.
Now, we remember the quiet man with the huge heart. The one who loved silently, gave everything he had to creatures who had nothing at all.
His flat’s still empty. Landlord talked about renting it, but funny thing… no one ever takes it. Maybe the faint scratches on the skirting. Or the picture frame the RSPCA left – shows Arthur giving a little smile, four pups on his lap.
Some reckon late at night, you might hear soft paws padding down the landing. A quiet howl carried on the breeze.
But these days? The sounds don’t scare us.
They remind us of love. Of sacrifice. Of a bloke we barely knew properly.
And we make sure
Honestly, I need to tell you this about old Reginald Blythe over at the Chestnut Court flats – proper spooked the whole neighbourhood, he did. See, Reg had lived on the third floor for donkey’s years, always dead quiet, just a nod in the hall, never said boo to a goose. Bit of a loner, really. No one ever visited, no parcels, nothing.
Then these weird noises started. Proper odd, they were. Like nails tapping the floorboards, then this awful whining that fair broke your heart, and frantic scratching behind his door. Got worse and worse. Poor Linda from flat two, bless her, left him a note worried he was ill and the racket was keeping her kids awake – no answer. Big Jared knocked once; Reggie only opened it a crack, looking really poorly, mumbled something and shut it fast.
People started gossiping then – reckoned he was barmy, hiding something dodgy, or hoarding pets. But they couldn’t prove a thing, his flat stayed shut up tight. Then, late last November, it went eerily silent for days. We thought maybe it was over.
Next minute? Worse than ever. Horrible gnashing and howling – ‘like something tearing its way out!’ Linda said. On the seventh day, Jared and Mark had enough and called the police.
Blimey, what they found when the coppers broke in. Place was wrecked – furniture tipped over, blankets shredded, stunk to high heaven. And dogs. Eighteen dogs! Skin and bone, limping about or collapsed. Poor Reg was stone dead on his mattress, been gone nearly a week. Doc reckoned he went peacefully in his sleep.
Turns out? He’d been rescuing strays for years. Pets thrown out, hurt ones from the motorways… spent his pension on feeding them, slept on the floor when the bed was full. Kept it secret, scared the lot would get taken off him. Without him, those poor buggers stayed, starving, scared, trying to wake him. Bless ’em.
The whole street felt like right plonkers for gossiping then. Linda organised collections straight away – dog food, blankets, cash came flooding in. The RSPCA lot turned up, tended to them all. Amazingly, every dog pulled through. One golden retriever, Shadow he’s called now, refused to leave Reggie’s bedside.
They found a locked box later – full of vet bills, notes about every dog he ever took in, with names, what medicine they needed, even their favourite toys. And one old note saying: *’If anything happens, don’t blame the dogs. They only know love. Took ’em in ’cause no one else would. Hope someone looks after them when I’ve gone.’* That note’s framed down at the rescue centre now.
All the dogs got adopted, proper happy endings. Linda took Shadow. Says he still sleeps by her door, waiting. We chipped in to bury Reg proper. Few folks turned up, felt they had to, bring flowers – and some brought the adopted dogs. No one thinks Reggie Blythe was ‘that odd old bloke’ anymore.
Now, he’s ‘Quiet Reg’, who loved without a word and gave his all to creatures with nothing. His flat’s been empty ever since. Landlord keeps saying he’ll rent it, but never does – maybe because you can still see the scratch marks on the floor, or the photo left on the wall of Reg smiling with four pups on his lap.
And yeah, sometimes late at night, folks swear they hear soft paws padding down the hallway or a gentle howl on the breeze. But these days? No one’s scared by it. It’s just a reminder, isn’t it? Of sacrifice, and love, and a man we never bothered to know properly. Makes sure we remember him now.
Sometimes the quietest ones have the biggest hearts. Don’t mistake silence for nothing happening; behind a closed door, there might be someone like Reg, showing amazing kindness you’d never guess. That story stayed with us, yeah? And Shadow, lying by Linda’s front step every evening, his old eyes still scan the pavement where Reg used to walk home, keeping watch just in case.