“Your cat stomps too loudly!”
“Turn off that blasted machine! I can’t sleep because of you!” A shout rattled through the door. Then came pounding and furious doorbell ringing. Emily flinched, dropping the remote. Alex stirred irritably.
The bedside lamp cast a dim glow. Outside, the muggy summer heat pressed in. Emily threw on her dressing gown and shuffled to the door.
Outside stood a woman in her seventies, lips pinched, eyes sharp with irritation. She wore a simple cotton dress and clutched her mobile.
“Sorry, but who are you?” Emily asked, keeping the door on the latch. Fear prickled her skin.
“I’m Margaret bloody Whitmore! From the third floor! That rattling contraption above my window keeps me awake! Switch it off now, or I’ll call the police. You’re making noise outside permitted hours!”
Emily tried to interject, but Margaret steamrolled on.
“Honestly, the nerve of some people! The whole block suffers because of you!”
“It didn’t seem that loud…” Emily ventured. “We made sure to check by the open window.”
“Not loud to *you*, maybe! My heart’s pounding from that racket!”
“Fine, we’ll turn it off,” Emily relented. “We didn’t realise it bothered anyone.”
“Well, now you know,” Margaret snapped.
Footsteps thudded away down the hall.
Emily switched off the air con and flung open every window. It did no good. The stifling heat rolled back in. Alex tossed and turned before stomping off for a cold shower. Emily lay staring at the ceiling. Not how they’d pictured their first summer in their own flat.
…They’d bought the two-bed just months ago. Last summer’s rented nightmare—wading through buckets of cold water, fans blasting hot air in circles—had convinced them to take the mortgage plunge, shaky hands and all. At least now, they’d thought, no landlord could boss them around.
Turns out, someone else could.
Next morning, Emily bumped into Natalie in the lift. They’d already met—even helped her fix a leaky tap.
“Listen, Nat,” Emily leaned against the wall, “we had the air con on last night, and someone complained. Is it really that noisy?”
Natalie’s eyebrows shot up.
“Let me guess. Margaret Whitmore?”
Emily nodded.
“She does this to everyone. TV too loud, my son laughing, once claimed our cat jumped too heavily. We’re used to it—she rings up twice a month. Manageable.”
Emily cracked a smile.
“The *cat*? Seriously?”
“Yep,” Natalie sighed. “We’ve stopped using the telly—headphones only. Kid and cat are trickier, obviously.”
Later, Emily ran into Andrew, whose identical air con unit hung right under Margaret’s window.
“Andrew, does she complain about yours?”
“Nah. Though mine’s a proper rattler. Mate said it was fitted wonky. Guess I charm her,” he smirked.
“Has anyone complained about us?”
“Not a peep. You’re ghosts—no kids, no drills, not even a dog.”
Somehow, this didn’t reassure Emily. She tested the air con again by the open window. Barely a hum.
So what *was* the problem? Maybe not decibels at all. Emily suspected Margaret just disliked *them*. Or maybe she hated anyone doing well. People like that existed.
Since Margaret’s first knock, their evenings became a tactical operation. They’d blast the cold early, praying it lasted till lights-out. The alarm was set for 22:59. A minute late, and fists hammered the pipes. Five minutes? She’d be at their door.
They resorted to a fan by the window—louder than the air con, yet for some reason, Margaret never mentioned it.
They even called a technician—model neighbours. He tightened fittings and added insulation.
“It’s already quiet. Can’t make it whisper,” he shrugged.
Emily beamed. Maybe now, peace.
Two nights later, her phone buzzed at 23:03.
“Is that *your* air con?” Margaret hissed. “My walls are shaking! My blood pressure’s through the roof!”
“We had it serviced—he said it’s near silent now.”
“*He* doesn’t hear it at night! Switch it off, or I’ll report you!”
Alex sighed and killed it. Another fan-filled night.
Soon, Emily noticed Margaret wasn’t silent either. Some nights, her phone screeches pierced the building.
“Call yourself a daughter?! Only ring when you want money!” she’d shriek. “Everyone’s abandoned me!”
Emily tried to block it out, but the noise seeped in, dragging her into Margaret’s misery.
One sleepless night, the wheezing fan drowning her thoughts, Emily remembered falling asleep to drills and muffled music in their old place. Never once complained. Flats meant noise. Everyone coped.
Except Margaret.
Late August’s heatwave broke them. When Emily’s parents invited them to their cottage, they packed in an hour. Unplugged everything. Bliss: corn cobs on the porch, laughter, only arguing over barbecue or grilled fish.
At half-one, Alex’s phone lit up. He groaned.
“Again?” Emily muttered.
“Who else?”
Emily propped up on her elbows. Had a pipe burst? Why else call *now*?
Alex put her on speaker, bracing for battle.
“Hello?”
“Are you *kidding* me?!” Margaret’s voice cracked. “That air con’s *roaring*! I’ve been up all night!”
Silence. Emily scanned the room. They *weren’t even home*.
“Margaret… we’re at my parents’. The flat’s empty. Everything’s off.”
“Liar! I *hear* it! If I have a heart attack, I’ll sue!”
Emily opened her mouth—but Margaret out-shouted her, spewing abuse till the line died.
Alex rubbed his face. “She’s unhinged. You see that now?”
“Doesn’t make it easier.”
Next morning, Emily’s mum checked their flat.
“All off. Only the fridge humming—and that’s if you press your ear to it.”
Somehow, that was worse. A difficult neighbour was one thing. But this?
It hit Emily then—the sleepless nights, headaches, technician fees, all to appease someone who’d never be happy.
“Em, I’m blocking her,” Alex said, packing the car. “Doorbell’s next. Or I’ll lose it.”
Emily added her to the blocklist too—the weight off her shoulders was instant.
First few nights, they felt like thieves. Margaret pounded at their door, shouting threats, muttering curses.
“Open up! I’ll bring the police! No respect these days…”
On day three, another neighbour snapped:
“Enough! *You’re* keeping us awake! One more word, and *I’ll* call the law.”
Margaret vanished.
A week later, a constable took their statement—merely a formality.
“Try to humour her. Elderly, difficult temper…”
No reprimand. He knew the score.
The pair still kept quiet—no late music, no hallway clutter. But they’d stopped dancing to Margaret’s tune where it crossed the line.
