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.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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