Tales of the Night

Tale 5. Noisy Neighbors

You have never met one of your neighbors, but you know you don't like them. There are hundreds of other tenants in your building, and you happen to live below the noisiest of them all.

For the most part, you can ignore their antics, going about your day while someone apparently tries and fails to assemble furniture above you. Sometimes, you make a game of it, guessing what they're doing and what kind of noises you'll hear next.

Tonight is not one of those times. Not only because you're trying to sleep, but because the sounds you hear are coming from their own bedroom and they are very...rhythmic.

You'd rather not imagine what's going on.

You also can't ignore them, and no matter how loud you play rain noises or how many meditation narrations you listen to, you can't mask the persistent thumping against your ceiling.

A heavy groan rumbles through the walls; your own groan is much more exasperated.

You're wide awake, tired, and annoyed—annoyed enough that your blood is boiling, tired enough that you lack all reason, awake enough that you jump out of bed and storm outside.

The air in the hallway is cool against your heated skin. The other units are silent; only you are privy to the performance of your upstairs neighbor. Perhaps you should just sleep outside.

No, you have to do this. You've put up with this for long enough.

You stomp up the stairs and to the offender's door. It's quiet, but that doesn't mean much to you. All of their efforts are probably directed at your ceiling.

So you direct your anger at their door, immediately knocking instead of ringing the doorbell.

Silence.

But it's too late for them to keep quiet. You knock again, firmer this time.

Nothing.

You raise a fist to try again.

The lock clicks.

You drop your arm and straighten your posture. Maybe you should have practiced your lines first.

The door cracks open an inch. When you search for the culprit, you only see darkness.

You open your mouth to speak. Before you can, whistling wind rushes out.

Musty mildew fills your nose; goosebumps crawl up your arms.

With every step you walk back, the door opens even further into the darkness.

And then there's silence—still, chilled silence.

The wind rustles from within. No, not the wind...whispers.

"Welcome..."

You run. Your legs rush back down the stairs, then down the hall and into your apartment. Your fingers fumble over the locks, and once the deadbolt clicks, you listen.

There's a thud against the ceiling. Once. Twice. Thrice.

The sound is all too familiar. You had always assumed they were assembling furniture or being aggressively intimate. You hadn't realized you made the same noise on their door mere seconds ago.

They were knocking. They wanted to come in.

Three thumps hit the ceiling, low and rumbling. Another three follow, crisp and rattling.

The windows.

You rush to the closest one, whisking the curtains closed just as the glass starts to shudder in the frames. The noise follows you as you hurry along the wall, trying and failing to shut it out with the thin fabric. You try not to look out the windows, but your instincts betray you, needing to see what's out there for yourself.

There is no one. There is nothing but darkness.

As soon as you close the last curtain, the noises cease, as if smothered into silence.

You watch the windows, waiting for their next move. No longer is the glass rattling; no longer is your ceiling rumbling. The only movements are the gentle swaying of the curtains and your shaking legs; the only sounds are your hammering heart and short breaths.

With every inhale, your pulse slows. As the curtains steady, so do your legs.

At last, the night is quiet once more. At last, you can get some rest.

You straighten your posture and let out a long exhale before heading back to your bedroom.

There's a tap on the glass. Once. Twice. Thrice.

You freeze; you turn.

There's a shadow in one of the curtains, the gentle waves of fabric holding a tall mass of darkness.

You rush to the door, reaching for the handle with one hand and the lock with the other. As soon as you grab on, the door shakes under your grasp. You jump back, but the rumbling continues, now accented by hammering you can feel in your feet. The pounding against the ceiling returns; the rattling of the windows escalates.

No longer are the knocks in sets of three. Now, they are continuous and relentless. Now, they are impossible to ignore.

Until they stop. You can still hear the pounding in your head, you can still feel the reverberations rumbling through your bones, but the rest of your apartment is quiet and calm.

You look back.

The windows are still, and the waving curtains shine bright with moonlight.

You look up.

Your ceiling looks as bland as it always does. The hanging light fixture above your dining table sways to a stop.

You turn to the door.

Memories of the tremors still linger on your palm, but now, the door is motionless. There are no sounds coming from it or the other side, as if none of your other neighbors heard the disturbance.

You glance at the peephole.

You know you shouldn't look. You know it would be stupid to do so, and that's what would get someone killed in a horror movie. Whatever's out there will be waiting for you, ready to stab you through the eye or something. You shouldn't look; you won't look.

But with every silent second that passes, your curiosity grows.

Before you realize it, you step towards the peephole.

You pause; nothing happens.

You lean closer; silence.

You look outside.

Nothing's there.

The bright hallway is empty and quiet, just as it was when you last stepped outside.

Still, you continue watching...waiting... You're not sure what you expect to see. You're not sure you want to see anything.

There's a tap on your shoulder. Once. Twice. Thrice.

You freeze. You don't speak. You don't breathe.

You have never met one of your neighbors, but now you will.

***

Written June 26–27, 2023.