When I first moved into my apartment building, I was relieved more than anything. New city, new job, new start. The place was small, but it was mine.
Quiet, clean, predictable—or so I thought. Within the first week, the knocking started. Every single night, without fail, at exactly 9:15 p.m., there would be a knock on my door.
Three sharp taps. Pause. Two more.
When I opened it the first time, an older woman stood there, hunched slightly, gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her eyes were sharp, restless. “Your music is too loud,” she said.
“I wasn’t playing any music,” I replied, confused. She frowned, muttered something under her breath, and walked away. The next night, the knock came again.
Same time. This time she asked if I’d seen a stray cat that didn’t exist. The night after that, she complained about footsteps above her ceiling—except I lived below her.
Some evenings she asked pointless questions: Did the mail come early? Was the elevator acting strange? Did I smell gas?
If I didn’t answer right away, she didn’t leave. She would knock again. And again.
And again. I tried pretending I wasn’t home. I tried sitting perfectly still in the dark, holding my breath like a child hiding from a monster.
But she always knew. The knocking would continue until my nerves frayed and I gave in. At first, I felt sorry for her.
Then annoyed. Then angry. I worked long hours.
I came home exhausted, often late, my head full of deadlines and mistakes and the constant pressure to prove I belonged. That knock became the one thing I dreaded most. It felt invasive, controlling—like she had claimed ownership over my evenings.
I complained to friends. “She’s lonely,” they said. “Ignore her.” But I couldn’t.
She wouldn’t let me. One night, everything broke. I had just come home after the worst day I’d had in years.
My boss had torn apart my work. The train was delayed. It was raining so hard my shoes were soaked through.
All I wanted was silence. At 9:15 p.m., the knock came. Something inside me snapped.
I yanked the door open before she could knock again. She started to speak, but I cut her off. “Why are you always doing this?” I said, my voice shaking.
“Why do you keep bothering me every single night? You complain about things that aren’t real, you make things up, and you won’t leave me alone. I didn’t do anything to you.”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
