I got back from work around seven in the evening, juggling grocery bags in one hand, fumbling for my keys with the other. The air was sharp from the coming winter, and the sky dimmed to a dull gray. I jiggled the key in the lock a few times before it clicked open. Just as I stepped inside, Mrs. Lane’s voice from across the hall cut through the quiet lobby.
“There’s a man screaming in your house every day. He’s already gotten on everyone’s nerves,” she said without looking away from her newspaper, like stating a fact, not trying to start a conversation.
I paused, the grocery bags heavy in my hands. “What?” I said, confused. “That’s not possible. I live alone.”
She shrugged, folding her paper with a neat snap. “Well, that’s what people say. The neighbors downstairs and across the hall keep complaining. It’s been happening for weeks now.” Then she looked up at me, her eyes narrowing a little. “You sure you don’t have visitors?”
I forced a polite smile but didn’t reply. I walked inside, locked the door behind me, and tried to shake off the strange feeling settling into my chest. The apartment was the same as always—dimly lit, my worn-out couch in the corner, the usual piles of books and papers on the coffee table. No one else was there.
After unpacking the groceries, I checked my phone. Nothing unusual—no missed calls, no new messages. I told myself it was probably some sort of mistake or maybe a prank. But the next day, I caught myself tensing every time I heard a shout or a slamming door outside. I started noticing how the neighbors looked at me when I came and went, some avoiding eye contact, others whispering behind their hands.
The days went on like this. My routine stayed the same: get up, take the bus to work, come home, and try to settle in. But the tension in the building was different now. At the mailbox, I found another note slipped inside, written in shaky handwriting: “He’s still screaming. Please do something.” No signature. I didn’t respond.
One evening, I ran into Mr. Patel in the laundry room. He was folding his clothes slowly, avoiding looking directly at me.
“About the noise,” I started, feeling awkward. “I don’t know anything about it. I live alone.”
He looked over his glasses, expression flat. “It’s late every night, around nine. Loud enough to wake my granddaughter. It’s hard to ignore.”
I nodded, not sure what to say. He returned to sorting his laundry without another word.
That night, I stayed up later than usual, sitting silently in the darkened apartment. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the occasional murmur from other apartments. I thought about the screaming—who could it be? What was really going on? But the silence inside my place was absolute.
The next morning, I got a text from an unknown number. “You need to check your apartment. Now.” No other details.
I debated ignoring it, but then I realized I couldn’t just pretend nothing was happening anymore. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Everything looked normal, but I moved through the rooms carefully, eyes sharp for anything out of place. The bedroom closet door was slightly ajar. I reached out and pushed it open; it was empty.
The unease settled heavier on my chest, like a weight I couldn’t shake off. I sat down at the kitchen table, staring at my phone. Another message came through: “We’re trying to help you. Please don’t make this worse.”
I wanted to call someone, anyone, but who? The landlord? The police? I didn’t know what to say. The whole thing felt like a trap I couldn’t understand.
Days passed without any sound from my apartment, but the gossip and stares didn’t stop. I stopped responding to anyone. The only conversations I had were short and strained—polite greetings from the mailman, quick exchanges at the corner store.
At work, I kept the window closed even though it was stuffy. Trying not to think about what might be happening behind the walls, or if it was all just a misunderstanding blowing up into something I couldn’t control.
Last night, I was locked in the apartment again when I heard it—just for a moment—a low, muffled noise. Not loud screaming, but something faint and unsettling. I stood frozen, listening to the silence that quickly followed.
I haven’t told anyone else about that. I don’t want to stir things up more. But now, I’m not sure what’s real anymore. I keep wondering if anyone even believes me—that I’m telling the truth when I say I live alone. There’s a sense of being watched, but from where or why, I don’t know.
I check my door lock three times before I go to bed, I don’t look out the window anymore, and the phone stays on mute. Every day feels like walking on the edge of something I can’t see and can’t explain.
Nothing has been solved, and there’s no clear way forward. I’m caught in the middle of this quiet tension that keeps building—between what people think they know, what I say, and whatever noise they’re hearing that I don’t understand. It’s like this strange barrier between me and everyone else, one I don’t know how to cross or break.
