Tuesday, 11 August 2015

Reasons to Write Horror: My neighbors an asshole.

So, my first apartment, (you know, the one I nearly burned down in the "sausage incident") was above a shop, in a block 4 storeys high. I had the apartment above the shop, there was one other apartment on my floor, and then two on each storey above.

And when I first moved in it was empty.

Completely.

The shop was a junk shop in raggedy Cliftonville (possibly still is), only open a few hours a day, and all the other apartments were empty. It was bliss. I was in a band, and we could rehearse there as long as the shop was closed. I could turn my TV up as loud as I wanted. Listen to music day and night. It was fantastic.

In this actual building!
Until I got company.

The nights started to draw in.

And one day I was sitting in the dark wondering how I was to afford electricity when I heard footsteps above me. Hm. I had company. Someone had moved into the apartment above. At first it was fine. I didn't really hear much from this interloper (in my building). But I wanted to know more. So I learned the sounds of footsteps. Learned when this person was leaving.

Waited by the spy-hole of my front door to find out what this person (or now, my stalkee) was like.

A young man. Maybe eighteen? Scruffy. No problem.

He was a night owl. Kept to himself. Never knocked on my door. I respected him, kept my music down, TV off at night. It was fine.

And then it started.

One night, when it was cold, I mean real cold, I'm wrapped up under the duvet. I'm struggling to sleep. My water on the night stand had grown a thin layer of ice on it. It's 2 a.m.

I hear him come in. Nothing unusual. He'll go to bed. Stay up. What do I care? I won't hear him again. But I do.

Music.

Loud music.

DEAFENINGLY LOUD MUSIC.

Jeez. It's 2 a.m. and he is blasting Oasis. My band used to do a couple of Oasis covers. I hated Oasis.

And this isn't just the thud of the base. I can actually sing along to it. It's that freakin' loud. Shit. I have no desire to go bang on this guys door. But it'll be fine. (What's the Story?) Morning Glory could only be what? 40 minutes long? I can deal with that. So I wait.

Time ticks on.

Then, Wonderwall is playing again.

More shit. He's put it on a loop. Now, I'm going to have to do something about it. I've got work in the morning. Get up. Get dressed. Shoes on. Into the hallway. Up stairs. Bang on door.

Bam, bam, bam.

No answer. I try again. Still no answer. And again.

Shit me. He's put the music on repeat and gone out.

I spend the whole night listening to the same songs, over and over and over and over...

But I can forgive. I can forget. (Clearly I can't.)

And I do, until it happens again.

Bam, bam, bam.

No answer. I try again. Still no answer. And again.

So I complain to the agency I rent from. They say they'll speak to him, whatever that means. And it happens again. So, fed up, pissed off, what am I to do? The police don't respond to this sort of disturbance. It's a council matter.

And then it happens.

One night, I'm laying in bed. All is quiet. I'm pretty much waiting for him to come home and start the music, when I hear footsteps. Not in his apartment, but on the stairs. Going up. And it's not him, or at least not just him. There must be eight? Ten?

So I'm prepared for the worse. A party. In the early hours of the morning.

But the footsteps don't stop. This isn't just a bunch of people going up. There's up, down, crashing, banging.

I kid you not, I'M SHITTING MYSELF.

What's going on?

Now, kids, I need to remind the younger ones here: There is no internet yet, no cell phones, I have no landline telephone. From my kitchen window, I could leap twenty feet to the pavement and run for the payphone down the street. Call the police. With a broken leg, most probably.

So I get up, and creep to the door. Look out the spy-hole.

Police. Weird. I look again. Armed police.

For those that don't know, in the UK armed police means serious shit. That means they expect him to be carrying a firearm, and in the UK? That's unheard of.

They're dragging him down the stairs.

And other people.

I didn't know there was anyone up there.

Turns out the kid was a drug dealer. Had the music on and was up there. He was either selling under the cover of the music (or, under the cover of being an asshole), or he was laying unconscious from whatever he was on.

Either way, I never heard from him again.

And my next neighbor? Nice chap. Rode a bicycle to work.

No comments:

Post a Comment