A West African—extremely resilient. Adaptable to any environment - Part 2
It was just past midnight, and the apartment was bathed in the soft glow of the moon through our bedroom window. Destiny and I had spent Friday night cozying up on the couch, watching our favorite show, following dinner I’d left work early to surprise her with. It was one of those rare, perfect evenings, the kind that made the long workweek worth it. When we finally turned in, sleep came easily, wrapping us both in that deep, satisfying rest that only comes after a good night together.
But a harsh, grinding sound cut through the silence, jolting me awake. I opened my eyes, groggy and disoriented, feeling Destiny stir beside me. The noise above was strange, relentless, like a dull roar that seemed to sweep back and forth directly over our bedroom. It took me a minute to make sense of it, but as the sleep cleared from my mind, I realized—it was the unmistakable, droning sound of a vacuum cleaner. Only it wasn’t steady; it was erratic, scraping against the ceiling, as if someone were dragging it in haphazard circles overhead.
Destiny sat up beside me, rubbing her eyes. “Is someone... vacuuming?”
Her words seemed ridiculous. Who vacuumed at this hour? Still half-asleep, my mind drifted to Patty’s story about the previous tenant. I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe this was some remnant of her—a strange spell cast, perhaps, or something worse. But just as quickly, I dismissed the idea. The stomping that suddenly thundered from above was too solid, too ordinary to be anything but a person.
“Are you serious?” I said, feeling my irritation simmer. “Who the hell vacuums their apartment at night?”
Destiny sighed, annoyed but too tired to argue. “Maybe it’s some kind of mistake.”
But then came another round of stomping, forcefully this time, as if whoever was above was walking back and forth with heavy boots on, making a point of every step. I threw off the covers, exasperated, and headed to the kitchen. Grabbing the broom, I tapped on the ceiling, trying to signal that we were, in fact, below and trying to sleep. But the noise only intensified—the vacuum’s hum whirred louder, the stomping heavier, as if it had only fueled this person’s resolve to disrupt us.
Annoyed, I tapped the ceiling again, harder this time, the broom handle rattling in my hands. I didn’t stop until I felt Destiny’s hand on my arm. “Babe, stop. He’s doing it on purpose. Don’t give him what he wants.”
Reluctantly, I lowered the broom and lay back in bed, trying to ignore the relentless noise. I knew one thing for sure: first thing morning, I’d be filing a complaint with the landlord. But for the rest of the night, sleep was impossible. The sounds only grew louder until the first light of dawn finally broke through the window.
Saturday morning, I quickly reached for my phone, ready to call the landlord, only to realize their office was closed on weekends. The neighbor above, meanwhile, seemed determined to keep up his disruption. Every step sounded like a deliberate stomp, vibrating through the ceiling. Sometimes it seemed he was moving furniture; other times, pacing in a slow, taunting rhythm. From the rough coughing fits we could hear between stomps, I guessed he was an elderly man.
The disruption continued all weekend, the stomping becoming more intense during the day, and the vacuuming, louder and more aggressive, picking up each night. I couldn’t shake the idea of heading up there, confronting this person face-to-face, but Destiny pulled me back each time. “This is the East Coast. You never know who’s packing.”
I bit my tongue, but every time I heard the heavy boots thundering above, a fresh surge of anger simmered inside. It was all I could do to keep myself in check, waiting for Monday morning when I could finally report this menace to the landlord.
Monday morning arrived, and I felt a surge of determination. I was finally going to bring the landlord’s attention to our situation. But when I called the landlord’s office on my morning commute to work, it wasn’t the landlord I was speaking to but a woman from a property management company that, apparently, handled everything for the apartment building. I described the neighbor’s rowdy behaviors, his late-night vacuuming and relentless stomping, expecting they’d intervene.
“Sir,” she interrupted flatly, “if you’re having trouble with your neighbors, you should contact the police. We don’t handle personal disputes.” And just like that before I could say more, she hung up.
I sat there, holding the phone, more stunned than angry at first. But as her words sank in, frustration started simmering, spreading through my veins like a slow burn. I hadn’t wanted to get the law involved, not over something as petty as noise, but as soon as we got home that night, the old man’s stomping picked up again. And by the time he’d started vacuuming, Destiny and I were desperate. I called the police.
A knock on the door announced the officers’ arrival: a male officer, broad-shouldered and stern, and his partner, a petite woman who looked equally annoyed. Their faces told me enough; this wasn’t their first visit here, and their patience was paper-thin. I took a deep breath, holding my frustration in check, and recounted the old man’s antics, emphasizing his incessant stomping, his odd hours, the vacuum that ran deep into the night.
“He’s up there now?” the woman asked, pointing up.
“Yes,” I said, unable to keep the tension out of my voice. “Even now. Just go up there, you’ll hear it yourself.”
The officers exchanged a look, then the man nodded. “Alright. We’ll talk to him, give him a warning this needs to stop. Or, he’ll face a fine.”
I thanked them, relief flooding me. Finally, someone was going to put an end to this madness. As the officers climbed the stairs, I turned to Destiny, grinning.
“See? My charisma never fails. Babe, I am natural!”
Destiny laughed, but before long, the officers were back, and my smile quickly faded after I heard what they had to say.
“He’s an old veteran,” the male officer said in a somber tone. “He said he’s moving.”
I felt my face twist in confusion. “Moving? By vacuuming at two in the morning?”
The woman nodded sympathetically. “He says he’s just clearing things up, packing. Didn’t look like he knew he was causing trouble.”
“Packing?” My voice rose before I felt Destiny’s soft hand on my arm. “You believe him?”
“He told us he’d be out by tomorrow,” the male officer said. “So you won’t have to worry much longer.”
With that, the officers gave a nod and left. But Destiny and I knew the truth: the old man had fed them a story, and they’d ate it up completely. I could imagine his words, dripping with false innocence—“Oh, I didn’t know I was causing any bother, Officers. An old veteran like me, vacuuming all night on purpose? I would never. I’m just packing.”
As soon as the officers left, the vacuum started up again. This time, he revved it higher, louder, with a mocking persistence that sent a pulse of anger through me. Destiny and I exchanged a look, silently agreeing not to call the police again. We’d give him the benefit of the doubt, hoping that tomorrow he’d be gone and the nightmare would end.
Morning brought more of the same. The stomping greeted us as we got ready for work, each step a reminder of the noise we’d endured all night. That nincompoop wasn’t packing—he was tormenting us.
“Maybe he’ll be gone by tonight,” Destiny murmured, as we headed out the door.
I held on to that hope, but it was shattered by the time we returned from work. The moment our door shut behind us, the stomping resumed, louder and closer, as though he was following our every step. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor above was like nails on a chalkboard, adding insult to injury. We went through dinner, watching TV, trying to unwind, all the while the old man kept his pace above us, relentlessly.
Finally, we turned in for the night, hoping sleep would come. But, as if on cue, the vacuum roared to life, louder than it had ever been, grinding against the ceiling as the old man stomped, as if determined to break through.
I snatched up my phone and dialed the police. This time, the dispatcher assured me someone was on their way, but no one came. That night, the old man made sure it would be unforgettable. Each step and hum from above constantly reminded us he wasn’t finished with us yet.
Exhausted, we lay awake, side by side, as the first light of dawn crept through the window. This would be our new normal from then on.
That old nincompoop knew we’d called the police and, most likely, knew that nothing could be done. Our complaint had exposed us. It was like we’d handed him a map of our vulnerabilities, showing him exactly how to crank up his tactics.
The nights became a symphony of torment. The stomping continued, aggressive than before, heavy boots thundering across the floor with each step he took. But the stomping was just the prelude. He dragged his chair across the floor deliberately, each screeching scrap of wood against carpet an assault on our nerves. The vacuuming returned, roaring to life in the middle of the night just as Destiny and I would finally start drifting off to sleep. Even after he had worn himself out from vacuuming, he kept going. He’d leave his radio on overnight—only he didn’t bother to tune it to any station. The static whine of an untuned frequency spilled through the ceiling and into our bedroom like a persistent, grating scream.
Then he made even water into a weapon. With water included in the lease, he didn’t have to pay for it, so he’d leave the bathroom faucet on all night. I could hear the water rattling through the old pipes in the building, sloshing and echoing as a constant reminder that he was always above us. The walls seemed to amplify every sound he made. The noise became a living thing, sinking its claws into us, stretching into every hour and corner of our lives. I could feel myself wearing down, and I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe that last tenant hadn’t been a witch at all. She’d just been the last victim in a line of them, broken by this old man and his noise of torment.
I’d go to bed each night with the promise of sleep, only to lie awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to that chaos unfold above me. And each morning, I’d get up, exhausted. Destiny and I would walk to the train station together, heading into the workday, and it was like my senses were under siege from every angle. Every sound on my way to work drilled into me—the hiss of bus brakes, the screech of light rail wheels, the honking horns, the wailing ambulances, the clatter of trains on the tracks and commuters’ endless chatter. Even the pigeons, their wings flapping over the station platform, sounded like drumbeats in my ears.
I tried to keep it all out, but the noise seeped in, poisoning each minute of my day. I felt a fresh anger growing with each hiss, screech, honk, wail, clatter, flap and chatter. I didn’t belong here.
This state was eating away at me, leaving only resentment in its place.
To Be Continued
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