Midnight Sounds Chapter 1

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 – 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.