Behind the Wall — Not Silence
“Turn that blasted telly down!” bellowed Margaret Whitmore, pounding her fist against the wallpaper. “It’s the middle of the night! People are trying to sleep!”
In response, the music swelled louder, as if the flat next door had transformed into some grand concert hall where every orchestra in the world was playing at once.
“Mum, don’t get worked up,” sighed Emily, stepping out of the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea. “Just talk to them properly tomorrow.”
“Properly?” Margaret spun around, eyes flashing. “I’ve been ‘talking properly’ for a month! They’re either deaf or pretending to be!”
Another crash echoed through the wall—men’s voices, raucous laughter, the heavy thud of boots. Margaret clutched her chest.
“Good Lord, what next? When old Mrs. Hutchinson lived there, God rest her, it was peaceful as a church. Now…”
Emily set her mug on the windowsill and sighed. “Mum, it’s just young lads having a bit of fun. Remember when me and Tom used to tear about the flat?”
“That was daytime! And we were children! These are grown men carrying on like schoolboys!”
The music cut off abruptly. In the sudden quiet, only the ticking of the grandfather clock and a faint whispering from beyond the wall remained.
“See?” Emily said, relieved. “Maybe they’ve realised they’ve gone too far.”
But the relief was short-lived. Minutes later, a long, mournful howl split the silence—not human, but animal.
Emily went pale. “What was that?”
“A dog,” Margaret muttered darkly. “Now they’ve got a ruddy great dog. Sounds like a wolf.”
The howl twisted into a whimper, then surged again, raw and wretched, as if the beast’s heart were breaking.
“Mum, what if it’s hurt? What if it needs help?”
“Help? They don’t care one bit!” Margaret hammered the wall again. “Quiet down, you lot! Sort that dog out!”
Muffled voices answered, but the words were lost. The dog fell silent—then howled louder than ever.
Margaret sank into her armchair, hands trembling on her knees. “Emily, I can’t take this. Every night—music, telly, that blasted dog. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
Emily perched on the armrest. “Have you called the constable?”
“Twice. He came, had a word. They went quiet for a day, then started right back up. Says there’s no proof. How do you prove noise? When he’s here, they act like saints. The moment he’s gone…”
Another crash—wood scraping, something heavy being dragged.
“Moving furniture at one in the morning,” Margaret muttered. “Decent folk don’t do that.”
“Mum, what if something’s wrong? What if it’s not them being rude?”
“You defending them now?”
“No, just… remember what Gran said about Uncle Jack? He used to make a racket at night, but it was his illness—Alzheimer’s. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
Margaret hesitated. The noise from next door *was* odd. Not rowdy neighbours—something stranger. Almost unnatural.
“Right,” she said, standing abruptly. “I’m going over. Talking to them properly.”
“Mum, it’s one in the morning!”
“So? They’re awake, aren’t they?”
She threw on her dressing gown and marched into the hall. The neighbour’s door was plain—except for the number, 38, partially covered with tape, as if someone had tried to hide it.
The doorbell chimed inside, unanswered. The thumping continued. The dog howled.
“Open up!” Margaret called. “It’s your neighbour!”
Silence. Then slow, shuffling footsteps.
The door cracked open on the chain. A single grey eye peered out.
“Yeah?” A man’s voice—weary.
“I live next door. Your noise—the music, the dog—it’s keeping everyone awake.”
“What music?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“What do you mean, ‘what music’? It’s playing right now!”
From behind the wall drifted a soft, melancholy tune—too loud for the dead of night.
The man frowned. “I don’t hear any music.”
Margaret faltered. “But—you must! It’s right there!”
“Madam, are you feeling alright? Need a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly well! And I can hear perfectly too!”
The door shut. Margaret lingered, listening. The music played on, but now it sounded distant—as if drifting through time itself.
Back inside, she found Emily pressing her ear to the wall.
“Well?” Margaret asked.
“It’s… odd. The music—it sounds like an old gramophone.”
“A gramophone? Who owns those anymore?”
“I don’t know. And… I think I hear voices. A man and woman. Talking, but I can’t make out the words.”
Margaret pressed her ear to the wallpaper. Sure enough, an old wartime ballad floated through, the kind from her youth. Between verses, whispered words—tender, loving.
“Maybe they’re watching a play?” Emily said.
“At this hour? And why did he say he didn’t hear music?”
“Dunno, Mum. Maybe he’s deaf?”
They stood there, listening. The song ended. Another began—older still. The voices faded to whispers.
“Mum… remember what Gran said about that flat?”
“What?”
“That a young couple lived there once. Husband and wife. Deeply in love. Then he went off to war and never came back. She waited for him her whole life.”
Margaret shivered.
“Emily, don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous. Gran said Mrs. Hutchinson told her. That couple was there in the forties. She used to play their records—their favourite songs—right up till she died.”
“And what are you saying?”
“What if… what if the noise isn’t the new neighbours?”
Margaret stepped back.
“Stop it. This is nonsense.”
But the music played on. Pre-war love songs. Voices—so alive, so real. A man murmuring, a woman laughing. Then singing together.
They went to bed but couldn’t sleep. The melodies wove through the walls—sometimes laughter, sometimes weeping.
At dawn, Margaret went to the building’s caretaker, Mrs. Thompson.
“Who lives in number 38?”
“No one,” Mrs. Thompson said, not looking up from her paper.
“What do you mean, no one? I saw a man!”
“That flat’s been empty since Mrs. Hutchinson passed. No tenants. No heirs. The management’s still sorting the paperwork.”
“But—the noise! The music!”
Mrs. Thompson finally looked up. “What music? There’s *no one there*.”
That evening, the songs returned. This time, Margaret didn’t shout. She listened. Beautiful, old melodies. Young voices, full of joy.
Slowly, her anger faded. The sounds weren’t a nuisance—they were a story. A love that outlasted time.
When Emily got home, she found her mother by the wall, quietly weeping.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, love. Just… listening to them.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But they *love* each other. Hear him singing to her? And her answering… They’re happy.”
Emily knelt beside her. A lullaby floated through the plaster—soft, sweet.
“Mum… maybe it really *is* them. From Gran’s stories. Maybe they’re still here. Together.”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter who they are. Just that they’re not alone. That they love each other. And we… we get to hear it.”
From then on, Margaret never complained about the noise. Each night, she listened—songs, whispers, laughter. Sometimes just silence, rich with love.
Emily listened too. They never spoke of what it might be. Only that behind the wall lived something old, something eternal.
Then one evening, the music stopped. For good.
“Gone away?” Emily asked.
“Maybe.”
The next day, a young man signed the lease for number 38. The flat stayed quiet—no music, no voices.
Margaret missed those songs. She realised now that behind the wall had never been silence. It had been love—persisting, unwavering, even after death.
“Mum,” Emily said softly, “maybe they left. Maybe they found each other, somewhere… beyond goodbyes.”
Margaret smiled. The wall was silent now. But in her heart, the melodies played on—songs of a love stronger than time.
