My name’s Tom, and I’m 35 years old. I work as a software developer, and after years of burnout, I finally found a peaceful place to call home. It was a small ground-floor apartment in a two-story house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac.
The area was serene, surrounded by tall trees, and the best part? The upstairs apartment was vacant when I moved in. For the first two months, it was perfect. I finally had the peace and quiet I’d been craving.
But that all changed the day Marie moved in.
I first noticed the moving truck on a Saturday morning. A woman in scrubs, looking stressed but determined, was directing the movers. She had short brown hair, and dark circles under her eyes, the kind you get from years of hard work. Two teenage boys were helping her, hauling boxes from the truck.
I decided to be friendly and went outside to offer help. “Hi there! Need a hand?” I called.
She turned and smiled. “Hi! Thanks, but I think we’ve got it covered. I’m Marie,” she said, gesturing to the boys. “These are my sons, Jake and Ethan.”
Jake was tall and confident, flashing me a smirk. “What’s up?” he asked casually.
Ethan, the smaller of the two, barely muttered a “Hey” and kept unloading the truck.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said. “I’m Tom, I live downstairs. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Marie replied. “I’ll be working night shifts soon, so I won’t be around much. But the boys are good at handling things.”
“We’ll keep the place under control,” Jake added, leaning against the truck with a grin.
“Alright, nice meeting you,” I said, heading back inside. They seemed nice enough, so I didn’t think much of it.
But then, things started to change.
Three nights later, I was jolted awake by a loud bassline thumping through the walls. At first, I thought it was thunder, but then I heard laughter and footsteps pounding above me. The music was blaring so loudly it felt like the whole apartment was vibrating.
I threw on a hoodie and stormed upstairs. Jake answered the door, his grin as wide as ever.
“Hey, man,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe.
“Hi,” I said, trying to stay calm. “The music’s really loud. It’s late, and I have work in the morning. Could you turn it down?”
Jake shrugged. “Sure thing,” he said.
But as soon as I went back to bed, the volume went back up. The next few nights were even worse. Jake’s late-night parties became a regular thing. I had to knock again on Friday. This time, I could barely hear myself over the music.
“Hey, neighbor!” Jake greeted me like we were best friends.
“Look,” I said firmly, “I’ve asked you before. Can you please turn it down? It’s past midnight.”
Jake tilted his head, pretending to think. “Yeah, totally. My bad.”
Before I could say anything else, Ethan appeared behind him. He looked nervous, glancing at me for a second before quickly looking away.
“Ethan, shut the door,” Jake said sharply, smirking at me as he did.
By Saturday morning, I had had enough. I grabbed my phone, recorded the loud music, and took pictures of the trash piled up in the yard. I sent everything to Mr. Grant, the landlord, along with an email.
“This needs to stop,” I wrote.
Mr. Grant replied the next day. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll speak with them.”
I sighed with relief, but that relief didn’t last long.
The parties didn’t stop. If anything, they got louder. I emailed Mr. Grant again, but his response was the same: “Marie says the boys are well-behaved. I can’t really take sides.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was just trying to get some sleep.
Meanwhile, Jake’s behavior kept escalating. One day, I found an empty beer can on my porch. I looked up and saw Jake leaning out the window above, laughing.
“Not mine!” he shouted down at me.
Ethan was standing nearby, watching silently. When our eyes met, he seemed like he wanted to say something, but then he just turned and walked away.
Ethan wasn’t like Jake. Sometimes I’d catch him glancing at me in the hallway, looking uncomfortable. Once, when Jake left a pile of trash outside my door, Ethan quickly mumbled, “Sorry,” before rushing off. But no matter how guilty he seemed, he never stood up to Jake.
I had enough of it all and left for a conference out of state.
When I returned, I felt lighter than I had in weeks. A week away had done wonders for my stress. But my good mood vanished the moment I stepped onto my porch.
There was an envelope taped to my door.
“Notice of Termination of Lease,” it read. My heart dropped.
I ripped it open. “Due to multiple noise complaints,” it said, listing disturbances every night I was gone.
I stood there, stunned. How could anyone file complaints against me when I wasn’t even home?
Furious, I called Mr. Grant. He answered right away. “Tom,” he said, sounding tired, “I understand this is upsetting, but—”
“You understand?!” I snapped. “I wasn’t even home! I can prove it.”
I rattled off everything: my flight itinerary, hotel receipts, and photos with timestamps showing exactly where I’d been.
Mr. Grant sighed. “Bring it by,” he said. “If what you’re saying is true, we’ll figure this out.”
The next morning, I sat down across from Mr. Grant at his office. I laid out my evidence: the plane ticket, the receipts, and even selfies from my trip.
He frowned as he looked through the papers. “This doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Marie’s complaints are detailed—dates, times, even descriptions of the noise.”
“They’re lying,” I said firmly. “It’s Marie’s kids. They’ve been making my life miserable for weeks.”
Mr. Grant didn’t look convinced, but he sighed and said, “Let’s go to the property. If this is still going on, we’ll deal with it.”
When we pulled into the driveway, my stomach dropped. The bass from the music was already shaking the car. We walked up the stairs, and voices and laughter spilled out from the open windows.
Mr. Grant’s face hardened. “Unbelievable.”
He knocked loudly on the door.
Marie opened it after a moment, looking tired and confused. Her hair was in a messy bun, and she was still in her scrubs. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice thick with frustration.
“We need to talk,” Mr. Grant said.
Marie sat on the couch, arms crossed. Jake leaned against the wall, bored, while Ethan sat stiffly beside his mom, staring at the floor.
“Tom has brought serious complaints against you,” Mr. Grant began. “This situation can’t continue.”
Marie shook her head. “Look, I don’t know what he’s told you, but my boys aren’t causing trouble. If it’s about the music, well, it’s daytime. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Jake scoffed. “Yeah, man. I don’t know why you’re making stuff up about us.”
I clenched my fists. “You’re lying,” I said. “Every night, there’s noise, music, and trash everywhere. I have proof.”
Jake shrugged. “Where’s your proof?”
I pulled out my phone, played the audio recordings—thumping music, loud voices, and furniture scraping. Then I showed pictures of beer cans in the yard and trash piled outside my door.
Mr. Grant turned to Jake. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Jake opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Ethan shot up from the couch.
“It’s true,” he blurted out.
The room went silent.
“Ethan, what are you doing?” Jake hissed.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Ethan said, his voice trembling. “It was us, okay? We had the parties. We were the ones making noise. We didn’t think it’d get this bad.”
Marie stared at her younger son, wide-eyed. “Ethan, is this true?”
He nodded, his eyes downcast. “Jake made me do it. He got into your email and filed complaints against Tom. We didn’t think it would go this far.”
Jake groaned. “Oh, come on. You had fun too. We can do whatever when Mom’s not around!”
“Enough!” Marie shouted, her voice shaking with anger. She turned to me, her face pale. “Tom, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
I couldn’t even look at her. I just sat back in my chair, too tired to say anything.
“I’m sorry, too,” Ethan said quietly. “I should’ve stopped it.”
Mr. Grant stood. “Marie, your family will need to vacate the property. I’ll give you 30 days.”
Marie nodded, shoulders slumped. “We’ll go.”
Jake rolled his eyes, but Ethan just looked relieved.
As they left the room, Marie stopped and turned back to me. “I’ll make this right,” she said softly.
I didn’t respond. I just watched them leave, the door closing behind them with a final thud.
The next morning, I found a note slipped under my door. It was from Marie.
Tom,
I’m so sorry for everything my family put you through. I had no idea what was happening, and I take full responsibility. Thank you for your patience. I hope one day you can forgive us.
