The Neighbor's Note

1.

The music throbbed through the walls, each beat rattling my bones like an unending torment. Midnight had come and gone, but sleep was a lost cause. I stared at the ceiling, counting each pulse of the bass as if it could somehow pull me into unconsciousness. This was the third night in a row—three nights of unyielding noise, and I was at my wit's end.

I couldn't take it anymore. I rolled out of bed, grabbed my phone, and dialed the non-emergency number. I tried to sound calm as I explained the situation—a new neighbor, loud music, no response to my knocks. The dispatcher assured me they'd send someone over.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity, the relentless music gnawing at my sanity. I was nearly asleep when the knock on my door startled me back to reality. I stumbled to the door, opening it to find two police officers standing in the dimly lit hallway.

"Sorry to bother you at this hour," one of them said, his expression somber. "But we need you to come with us. There's been...an incident."

My heart skipped a beat. "An incident? What do you mean?"

The officer hesitated, exchanging a glance with his partner before turning back to me. "Your neighbor—he's dead."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "Dead?" I whispered, the word tasting foreign in my mouth. "How?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out. But...we found something."

They led me next door, and my mind raced. The apartment was identical to mine, but something felt off. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and something metallic, something that made my stomach turn. The music had finally stopped, but its ghost still lingered in the silence, echoing in my head.

The officers guided me to the living room. There, slumped over a coffee table cluttered with crumpled paper and empty bottles, was my neighbor. His skin was ashen, his eyes wide open but empty, staring into the void. In his hand, he clutched a small, crumpled piece of paper.

One of the officers stepped forward, gently prying the note from his stiff fingers. He unfolded it and handed it to me.

I stared at the paper, my breath catching in my throat as I read the words scrawled in frantic, jagged handwriting:

"I'm sorry. Ira, I had no choice. They made me do it. You're next."

A chill ran down my spine, icy and paralyzing. I stumbled back, the room spinning around me as the weight of what I was seeing settled in.

This wasn't just a random death. It was a warning.

And it was meant for me.