Midnight Sounds

My downstairs neighbor keeps ranting in the group chat about me dancing in the middle of the night, even called the cops.

I rolled up my pants, revealing my prosthetic legs.

The neighbor scoffed, So prosthetics mean you can't dance?

Left with no choice, the police installed a sound monitor.

That very night, as I slept soundly, the device suddenly spiked off the charts!

The neighbor brought people to smash my door, claiming I was causing a severe disturbance.

But the noise, it was clearly coming from the empty apartment directly above me, unit 401!

To clear my name, I led everyone upstairs.

We only found a dog in 401.

The police said the sound came from the dog scratching its cage.

In the end, the dog was taken away by the police.

But the next night, those eerie dance steps started again

Patrick, from 201, was @-ing me in the group chat again.

My phone vibrated on the coffee table, its screen a harsh, cold glow in the dim living room. I hadn't bothered turning on the lights; only the streetlamp outside offered a sliver of illumination. I reached for the phone, unlocking it, the sudden brightness making me squint.

It was him, alright. "Patrick from 201." The building's community chat had already scrolled through a dozen messages.

"@Kevin from 301, are you ever going to stop? Every single night, two or three AM, thump-thump-thump! How's anyone supposed to sleep?"

"Is the HOA doing anything? Taking our money and doing nothing? Are you just going to let this guy torment the whole building?"

"I've told you a hundred times, have some decency! What kind of dancing? Can't you dance during the day? Do you have to be a maniac in the middle of the night?"

"I'm calling the police tomorrow! See if that doesn't shut you up!"

A few other neighbors chimed in, either agreeing or trying to smooth things over. "Calm down, Patrick," "Kevin probably doesn't mean it," "Just talk it out."

My fingers felt stiff, typing slowly: "Patrick, I'm telling you again, it's not me. I'm asleep by ten."

Send.

Almost instantly, Patrick's reply popped up: "Bullshit! If it's not you, who is it? You're the only one above and below! My ceiling's vibrating! Want to hear the recording? Have you no shame?"

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. That familiar spark of anger flared in my chest, making my throat dry. An explanation, the hundred-and-first explanation.

"Patrick, I have a disability. How could I possibly be dancing? Are you sure you're not mistaken? Or maybe it's something else"

"Don't give me that!" He cut me off, every word seething with malice. "Playing the pity card, huh? Can't move your legs? You seem pretty agile to me! Prosthetics? Can't you dance with prosthetics? You probably jump even higher!"

That last sentence pierced me like an ice-cold needle. I clutched my phone. The living room was stifling without AC, but a cold sweat trickled down my back. My prosthetic legs, propped silently beside me, their cool metal shells usually comforting, now felt like searing brands against my skin.

The next afternoon, the police actually showed up. Two officers, one older, one younger, their faces etched with routine weariness as they knocked on my door. Officer Ramirez, the older one, eyed me, then glanced at my wheelchair, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"You're Kevin Ellis? Your downstairs neighbor, unit 201, reported you for creating excessive noise late at night, a severe disturbance."

I stepped aside, inviting them in. My apartment was small, a one-bedroom, one-bath, almost too clean, lacking any real warmth. I rolled my wheelchair to the center of the living room.

"Officer Ramirez, it wasn't me. I go to bed very early."

The younger officer scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over the bare floors, simple furniture, finally settling on me. Patrick had followed them up, squeezing into the doorway, his face flushed and furious. He pointed at me, practically shouting, "Officers, it's him! He's always making trouble late at night! A compulsive liar! Look at him, he puts on a good show!"

Officer Ramirez waved a hand, silencing him. "Mr. Ellis, we've received multiple complaints, and they're all pointing to you. You mentioned a leg disability C could you elaborate?"

I said nothing, gripping the armrests of my wheelchair, taking a shallow breath, and slowly, deliberately, rolled up the right leg of my jeans. The air thickened.

Rolled up past my knee, it revealed the connecting structure of metal and composite materials, with a distinct scar around the skin interface. I paused, then, under Patrick's suddenly wide-eyed stare, rolled up my left pant leg too. The same structure: the mechanical parts connecting to the severed flesh.

Only the faint hum of the air conditioner filled the living room.

Patrick's mouth hung open, his anger frozen on his face, slowly morphing into an expression of disbelieving shock. But quickly, something else began to churn beneath that shock.

"This" Officer Ramirez also seemed taken aback, his tone softening. "Mr. Ellis, is this"

"An accident, a few years ago." I pulled my pant legs back down, the fabric falling to conceal the cold interfaces. "So, Officer Ramirez, I truly can't be dancing in the middle of the night. My prosthetics are off at night; they're over there." I gestured towards the bedroom.

Officer Ramirez nodded, then turned to Patrick. "Mr. Jenkins, you see, isn't there some misunderstanding here? Perhaps the sound is coming from somewhere else?"

"Misunderstanding?" Patrick's voice climbed to a shriek. He darted past the officers, practically lunging at me, his finger almost poking my face. "Officers, don't let him fool you! Prosthetics! What about prosthetics? Can't you move with prosthetics? He's probably even better at faking it! Bouncing around with his prosthetics at night, then playing the victim during the day!"

"I heard it with my own ears, right above me, thump-thump-thump, like drumming! If it's not him, who is it? Is it a ghost?" His spittle nearly sprayed my face, his eyes bloodshot, fixated with a mad certainty that wouldn't back down. I caught a whiff of stale smoke and liquor on him.

Officer Ramirez and the younger officer exchanged a look, both appearing resigned. The younger officer spoke up, "Mr. Jenkins, please calm down. Look, Mr. Ellis certainly has a special situation. But since we're here, we can't just take one side."

"We brought a decibel meter. We'll leave it in Mr. Ellis's living room for now. We'll set a threshold, and if there's genuinely excessive noise tonight, it will record it."

"We'll also leave you our contact information. If anything happens again, you can call us directly, and we'll come check the recordings. That's fair to everyone, don't you think?"

Patrick's chest heaved, glaring at me, then let out a heavy snort from his nose. "Fine, let's see how long you can keep up the act! Officers, you better be fair, don't play favorites with the disabled!" He bit down hard on the word "disabled."

Officer Ramirez didn't engage with that comment. He had the younger officer retrieve a palm-sized white device, placing it on my living room's TV stand. After a few adjustments, a green indicator light glowed. He gave me some instructions, mainly about living normally at night but being mindful of truly loud noises.

They left, taking the still-grumbling Patrick with them. The door clicked shut, and the world abruptly fell silent, save for the faint power light of the decibel meter. I leaned back in my wheelchair, staring at that tiny light. Patrick's last glare, that line, "Can't you move with prosthetics?" He knew, he clearly saw, yet he chose a more absurd, more malicious interpretation. This wasn't a misunderstanding; it was a twisted animosity.

That night, I went to bed early. My prosthetics were off, resting on the specially made stand by my bed. I took a sleeping pill and quickly sank into a deep, dreamless darkness. I slept soundly.

I don't know how long passed, but violent banging on the door suddenly yanked me from the darkness.

"Open up! Kevin! Open the door! Police!"

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. The bedroom was pitch black, only a sliver of hallway light visible under the door. The banging was urgent and heavy, mixed with Patrick's hoarse shouts and another stern male voice.

"Kevin! This is the precinct! Open the door and cooperate with the inspection!"

It was Officer Ramirez.

I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. The screen flared, stinging my eyes3:17 AM. I steadied myself, trying to keep my voice even: "Coming!" I threw off the covers, instinctively found my wheelchair, pulled myself into it, and rolled towards the living room.

Opening the door, the stark white hallway light flooded in. Outside stood Officer Ramirez, the younger officer, and a flushed, wide-eyed, almost gleeful Patrick. Patrick was holding up his phone, screen facing me, displaying what looked like some kind of graph.

"Officers, see? It's him, concrete evidence!" Patrick shouted, his voice distorted by excitement.

Officer Ramirez's face was grim. He stepped in front of Patrick, addressing me: "Mr. Ellis, apologies for the disturbance. We received a call from Mr. Jenkins, reporting that your decibel meter readings spiked severely, over one hundred, which is a major disturbance. We need to come in and check the device's records."

My mind was still fuzzy. I stepped aside, letting them enter. "Officer Ramirez, I've been asleep this whole time, I just woke up. How could there be any noise?"

The younger officer walked directly to the TV stand, picked up the white decibel meter, and pressed a few buttons. The screen lit up, displaying a string of data and a fluctuating curve. He studied it, a deep frown on his face, then handed the device to Officer Ramirez.

Officer Ramirez stared at the screen, his expression growing even grimmer. He looked up at me, his gaze sharp. "Mr. Ellis, the meter's record shows that from 1:40 AM until around 2:20 AM, the noise level at this location peaked at 105, with an average of over 95."

"Those are indeed very high readings, equivalent to a construction site. How do you explain this?"

"I can't explain it." My voice was a little dry. "Because I genuinely was asleep. Could the device be faulty? Or perhaps" I suddenly remembered Patrick's accusation, and a bizarre, chilling thought surfaced. "Or the sound wasn't coming from my apartment at all?"

"You're full of it!" Patrick jumped up, pointing at the ceiling. "It was coming from here! I heard it clearly! Dancing, it was dancing, thump, thump, thump!"

The moment he finished speaking, as if to confirm his madness, or perhaps to mock my defense, there it was.

Thump.

A dull thud, distinctly from above. Not beneath my feet, but directly over my head. The sound wasn't loud, but it was heavy, with a certain rhythm then two more.

Thump, thump.

Evenly spaced, truly sounding like footsteps, or something bouncing on the floor. All four of us froze. Patrick's excitement vanished, his face slowly turning towards the ceiling, mouth agape. Officer Ramirez and the younger officer also snapped their heads up.

The living room was utterly silent. Only the decibel meter glowed, its curve seemingly flat.

But a few seconds later.

Thump, thump, thump, thump

A series of sounds rolled across the ceiling, from far to near, then near to far, truly like someone pacing back and forth, or bouncing, in the room. The sound was clearer than before, more rhythmic, even carrying a certain light cadence.

"Upstairs" the younger officer murmured, his face looking as if he'd seen a ghost.

Officer Ramirez reacted fastest. He gave me a deep, complex look, then barked, "Let's go! Upstairs!"

We surged out the door.

My wheelchair was a bit cumbersome in the narrow stairwell; Officer Ramirez and the younger officer practically ran up. Patrick trailed behind them, his face ashen, muttering under his breath, "Upstairs? 401? How could that be it was clearly"

Unit 401's door was tightly shut, perfectly silent inside, as if the eerie footsteps had been a collective hallucination. Officer Ramirez pounded on the door. "Open up! Police!"

No response. Only the knocking echoed in the empty stairwell. After another round of knocking, Officer Ramirez gestured for the younger officer to contact the building management.

During the wait, we stood outside 401, nobody speaking. Patrick leaned against the opposite wall, his gaze fixed, alternating between 401's door and me. His previous arrogance was gone, replaced by confusion and a subtle, unshakeable fear.

The building's night manager, still groggy from sleep, arrived with a ring of keys and found the spare for 401. The lock turned with a click, and the door opened.

Officer Ramirez pushed it open first, flipping on the light switch by the door. Light banished the darkness. The entryway was empty, the living room empty. A thin layer of dust covered the simple furniture. No signs of anyone living there. The air held a faint scent of dust mixed with something else, strange.

"Anyone here? Police!" Officer Ramirez moved further inside. The younger officer followed, cautiously checking each room. Bedroom, empty. Kitchen, empty. Bathroom, empty.

Patrick squeezed into the doorway, peering in, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. "This no one? Then what was that?"

My wheelchair was parked outside the door, offering a view of most of the living room. Indeed, no one. But

"Officers!" the younger officer's voice came from inside, tinged with surprise. "Come see!"

We followed the sound to a small balcony. On the balcony sat a rather large pet cage. Inside, a yellow-and-white mutt eyed us timidly, its tail tucked between its legs. Hearing the commotion, it shifted nervously, its paws tapping on the metal bottom of the cage, making faint "tap-tap" sounds.

A dog? Just a dog?

Officer Ramirez squatted to examine the food and water bowls beside the cage. The water was nearly gone, but a bit of kibble remained. He stood up, clapping his hands. "Contact the landlord. This apartment seems to have been vacant for a while. The dog might have been left by the owner, or someone temporarily boarding it?"

The building manager quickly flipped through a registry, then made a call. The owner, an elderly lady, answered, stating she was staying with her son, the apartment had been empty for over six months, and she certainly didn't own a dog, nor did she know where it came from.

The situation grew bizarre. A dog, source unknown, confined to the balcony of an empty apartment, 401. Those "dancing" sounds

Officer Ramirez watched the dog, which, made more anxious by the crowd, began to pace nervously within its cage, its paws clicking against the metal, tap, tap, tap The sound, amplified in the quiet, empty room, transmitted through the floor

A plausible explanation seemed to emerge. A dog, active in the middle of the night, its paws hitting the cage bottom or the floor, the sound traveling through the floorboards, distorted and amplified in the dead of night, sounding like footsteps, even dancing.

Patrick's face cycled through shades of red and white. He opened his mouth to speak, but ultimately said nothing, avoiding my gaze and looking down.

Officer Ramirez instructed the younger officer to take the dog away, to contact an animal shelter or find someone to temporarily foster it, while continuing to investigate its origin. He then turned to me. "Mr. Ellis, it seems this was a misunderstanding. The source of the noise was likely this dog. We'll handle it. Apologies for disturbing your rest."

I nodded, too tired to say anything. Watching them leave with the whimpering dog, the door of 401 clicked shut and locked once more.