I don’t know who my downstairs neighbours are, but every now and then I get clues. Sounds that waft up from beneath, pricking the hairs on the back of my neck, altering me to an otherworldly presence as I go about with my own daily business.
Voices, muffled thumping, the creaking of imaginary furniture.
His cough, her laugh.
Sometimes glimpses of blurry faces passing me in the foyer of the house we share, where the separate entrances of our apartments meet.
That’s how I know my downstairs neighbours.
I think they have a baby, way down, way down, down under there. Or maybe they are periodically torturing a cat, skinning it alive with crooked razor blades at 2:00AM in the morning – an easy joke to make when you dislike hearing the disembodied crying of a baby at 2:00AM in the morning.
Who are these people?
I fell asleep the other night to the sounds of the downstairs neighbours having not-so-great sex. It was kind of like being haunted by the laboured moaning of determined, yet defeated spirits.
I feel like the baby should have been crying that night.
But it wasn’t.