The Neighbor's Note

2.

The town I lived in was quiet and peaceful, the kind of place where time seemed to slow down. Even the people around me cherished the solitude. Most of us knew each other, but our interactions rarely went beyond polite nods, brief eye contact, and the occasional smile. It was an unspoken agreement, a mutual respect for privacy that everyone honored.

I've been in this neighborhood for five years now. After college, I moved away from my parents, putting some distance between us by choosing this sleepy little town as my new home. My job at the local bank as a cashier offered just the right mix of routine and the occasional burst of excitement—small town banking has its own quirks, after all. But I loved my "boring" job, as well as the quiet evenings that followed. After work, I'd water my plants, sip coffee while reading a few pages from a book, and enjoy the calm of my veranda. Dinner was a simple affair, accompanied by some mindless TV, before I'd retire early, ready to start the next day.

That was my life—a serene and predictable rhythm that I had come to treasure.

Until recently.

Three days ago, everything changed.

It started with the arrival of my new neighbor. The moving truck rumbled into the driveway next door, shattering the afternoon stillness. I watched from my veranda as they unloaded boxes, furniture, and other personal effects. I didn't get a good look at the new tenant, just a glimpse of someone tall and hurried, too absorbed in their task to notice me watching.

That first night, the music started. Loud, pulsing beats that seemed to vibrate through the very walls of my house. I tossed and turned, trying to drown it out, but sleep eluded me. The next day at work, I was groggy, barely able to focus on the simple tasks at hand. My usual routine felt off, disrupted by this unexpected intrusion.

The second night was worse. The music began even earlier, just as I was settling in with my book. It was impossible to concentrate with that relentless noise filling the air. I knocked on the door, hoping to speak with my new neighbor, to ask them to keep it down. But there was no answer. The music continued, blaring into the night, and I found myself lying awake again, staring at the ceiling, my peaceful world unraveling.

By the third night, I'd had enough. I called the police, my frustration boiling over. They arrived quickly, the flashing lights of their patrol car casting eerie shadows on the walls. I watched from my window as they knocked on the door next door. There was no response at first, just like before. But then, the music abruptly stopped.

Minutes later, one of the officers came to my door. The look on his face told me something was very wrong.

"We need you to come with us," he said, his voice calm but firm. "There's been... an incident."

An icy fear gripped me as I followed them next door. The apartment was identical to mine, but it felt different, colder somehow. The air inside was thick with a sharp, metallic smell that made my stomach churn. The music had stopped, but its ghost still echoed in my mind.

And then I saw him—my new neighbor—slumped over the coffee table. His eyes were open but empty, staring into nothingness. In his hand, he clutched a crumpled piece of paper.

The officer gently pried it from his stiff fingers and handed it to me. My hands trembled as I unfolded the note.

The words, written in frantic, jagged handwriting, sent a chill down my spine:

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