Chapter 1: Midnight Deliveries and Hammer Rage

My gorgeous neighbor keeps ordering takeout, but every single time, she uses my address instead of her own. No joke. The first time, I figured it was a fluke. By the sixth, I started wondering if she was trying to drive me insane. Why me? Why always my door? I mean, is there a neon sign out there that says, 'Deliver all food here, please'? Sometimes I swear the universe just likes to mess with me.

I’d barely finished unpacking at Maple Heights—supposedly the quiet, peaceful, fresh start I desperately needed—when this woman next door, the one with looks that make you do a double-take, started up with the DoorDash and Grubhub parade. Always my unit number. Like, what the hell? At first, I figured she’d mixed up the numbers. But after the sixth time? No way was this just an honest mistake. She had to be doing it on purpose. I mean, seriously. Who does that?

After being woken up for the sixth time at 2 a.m. by a delivery guy pounding on my door, I was ready to lose my mind. I could feel my whole body vibrating with rage. It was like my nerves had finally snapped.

It wasn’t just the pounding. It was the way the delivery guys would lean into the doorbell like it was a fire alarm, bellowing, “Order for 3B!” like I was supposed to thank them for waking me up. My heart would be jackhammering, palms clammy, every single time. I’d been running on empty from years of insomnia, and this just felt like some kind of cosmic prank. You ever try to fall back asleep after your heart’s been launched into orbit at 2 a.m.? Good luck with that. Seriously.

I banged on my neighbor’s door like a lunatic, fists flying like I was auditioning for a drumline. I could feel every ounce of frustration pouring into each knock. What else was I supposed to do—just let it keep happening?

I didn’t even bother to put on shoes. The cold floor stung my feet as I stomped over, hair wild, clutching the hammer I’d been using to hang a picture frame earlier. I pounded so hard I thought I might actually crack the paint. The hallway echoed like a cave, but honestly, I didn’t care if I woke the whole building. I was way past the point of caring about anyone’s beauty sleep—including my own.

She peeked out, eyes wide, looking like a cornered deer. Her voice was all soft and breathless: “I’m so sorry, I promise it won’t happen again.” She didn’t even look me in the eye, just kind of stared at my hammer. I almost felt bad for a second—almost. But then I remembered the pounding at 2 a.m. and my sympathy evaporated.

She looked so frazzled—bare feet, pajamas with little clouds on them, her hair pulled into a messy bun. Her eyes darted from my face to the hammer and back. For a split second, I thought about backing down, but then the exhaustion hit me all over again. I almost felt bad for a second—almost.

But the next day, I noticed a new mark on the wall next to my door.

It was just a little scratch, like someone had jabbed a key into the drywall and twisted. But it was right at eye level, and it definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. I stared at it for a long time, heart thumping. Was I finally losing it, or was someone actually messing with me?

The mark was weird—almost like a symbol, a little X with a swirl under it. Not the sort of thing you’d see by accident. My stomach did a little flip. No way this was random. It looked like a sign that someone had targeted me. Like, was this some kind of warning? I couldn’t shake the feeling something bad was brewing.

My mind raced. Was this some gang thing? A prank? I suddenly felt like I was living inside one of those true crime podcasts I binge on my commute. I could practically hear the ominous music playing in the background.

I grabbed my phone and Googled “burglar symbols.” I compared the pictures I found, scrolling through image after image, holding my phone up next to the wall. Nothing matched exactly. My heart wouldn’t slow down.

Scrolling through Google Images, I held my phone up next to the wall, squinting. Nothing matched exactly. No “easy target” or “single woman lives here” or whatever else the internet warned about. Still, it gave me the creeps. The longer I stared, the more it looked like a message meant just for me. What kind of message, though? I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was laughing at me.

No other explanation made sense. My neighbor must’ve done it—payback for my hammer rage. I could practically see her in my mind, muttering curses and scratching that little symbol into my wall like she was casting a spell. The thought made my blood boil. I mean, sure, I’d been a little intense, but come on—who wouldn’t snap after being woken up that many times?

All I did was warn her not to have takeout sent to my place in the middle of the night. Okay, I was holding a hammer and pounding on her door, but still. Anyone would’ve lost it after that much sleep deprivation.

In my head, I replayed the scene, trying to justify myself. I didn’t threaten her, exactly. I just wanted her to stop. Maybe the hammer was a bit much, but I’d just been using it. It wasn’t like I was waving it around. Still, the memory made my stomach twist. Was I the villain here, or just the only sane person on the floor?

Look, I’ve had insomnia for years. Nervous exhaustion, too. Getting woken up at two or three in the morning? It’s just too much. For someone like me, that kind of jolt isn’t just annoying—it’s torture. I need quiet like most people need air.

My therapist says I have a “heightened startle response.” I say I just want to get some damn sleep. I’d tried everything—melatonin, white noise, herbal teas. None of it works when someone’s pounding on your door at 2 a.m. Not even those YouTube rain sounds. I swear I’d try voodoo if I thought it’d help.

Thinking about it made my anger flare up again. I punched in my door code, rushed inside, grabbed a kitchen knife, squatted in the corner, and scraped the mark off the wall bit by bit. Each scrape felt like a tiny bit of revenge. Take that, you mysterious symbol.

I was half expecting someone to come out and yell at me, but the hallway stayed silent. I took my time, making sure every trace of that mark was gone. My hands shook. Was it anger, or fear? I couldn’t even tell anymore. The kitchen knife was dull, but I kept scraping until my knuckles were white.

I wasn’t done yet. After making sure there was no trace left, I picked up the hammer and knocked on my neighbor’s door again. My heart pounded. I was done playing nice.

BAM BAM BAM—

This time, I didn’t even try to be polite. My knocks were loud enough to wake the dead. I waited, jaw clenched, listening for footsteps on the other side. Let her try to ignore me now.

After my thunderous knocking, my neighbor still didn’t answer. I clenched my jaw so tight it hurt. Was she really going to just hide out and pretend nothing happened? The frustration simmered in my chest.

The silence felt thick, like she was holding her breath behind the door. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she was just ignoring me, hoping I’d go away. Either way, my patience was gone. I was done waiting for her to do the right thing.

I knocked a few more times, still nothing. So I shouted at the door, my voice fierce:

“If you mess around again, I’ll keep going crazy—neither of us will get any peace!”

My words bounced down the hallway, echoing off the cheap drywall. I didn’t care who heard. At this point, it was war.

I turned around, slammed my door shut. Dropped the hammer. Did twenty sit-ups before my anger finally cooled off. Each crunch was like squeezing out another drop of rage. My body ached, but at least it was a different kind of pain.

I dropped the hammer on the kitchen table, then threw myself onto the living room rug and started doing sit-ups, counting under my breath. One, two, three—my muscles burned, but it was better than thinking. My therapist says exercise helps with stress. Maybe she’s right. By the time I hit twenty, my chest wasn’t burning quite as much. Still, I muttered, "That woman is going to drive me to an early grave."

After I calmed down, I thought it through. My neighbor was probably going to keep causing trouble. The grudge was already there. Next, it would just be a contest to see who could be more shameless. I groaned, realizing I’d just signed up for a battle of wills with the queen of passive aggression.

I stared at the ceiling, sweat cooling on my skin, and realized this wasn’t over. In my experience, people like her don’t just let things go. It was going to turn into a standoff—who could be more stubborn, who’d break first. I felt a shiver of dread, but also a weird thrill. I wasn’t backing down.

I took a deep breath, called the Maple Heights building management, explained the situation, and was told they’d come soon to mediate. I doubted they’d actually do anything, but at least I’d have it on record. Maybe that would scare her off.

The woman at the front desk sounded exhausted, like she’d heard it all before. Still, she promised someone would come by. “We’ll have a word with your neighbor,” she said. “We want all our residents to feel safe.” I almost laughed at that. Safe. Right.

Finally, a bit of hope. I relaxed, washed up, and went to bed. Maybe this would finally be the end of it. I let myself imagine a night of uninterrupted sleep, even if it felt too good to be true.

I took the world’s fastest shower, threw on a pair of old pajamas, and crawled under my comforter. I told myself things would be different now. Maybe the building would scare her straight. Maybe I’d actually sleep through the night. God, I hoped so.

This time, I wore both in-ear earplugs and over-ear headphones. I looked ridiculous, but who cared? I wanted to block out every possible sound. I even put on a YouTube video of ocean waves, cranked up to max volume. If anyone could sleep through this, it would be me. Or so I hoped.

I was determined to sleep if it killed me.

But it was no use.

It was like the universe was laughing at me. No matter how many layers I put between me and the world, it always found a way in. My eyes snapped open at the first knock, heart pounding. Some people have nightmares. I have delivery guys.

I forced my eyes open and checked my phone: 2:30 a.m., April 5th. I groaned, knowing exactly what was about to happen. Here we go again.

The blue glow of the screen hurt my eyes. 2:30 a.m. Again. I groaned, rolling over, hoping it was just a bad dream. But the knocking kept coming, steady as a metronome. My pulse spiked. I wanted to scream.

The delivery guy’s knocking just wouldn’t stop. I could hear him shifting his weight, probably cursing me under his breath. Did he think I was deaf? Or just being rude?

He wasn’t giving up, either. It was like he thought I’d ordered the food and was just being rude. I could hear him muttering to himself, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I almost felt bad for him—almost.

If the customer doesn’t leave specific instructions, delivery guys at this hour usually just drop off the food and take a photo. I’d worked delivery in college. After midnight, nobody expects you to wait around. You drop the bag, snap a pic, and get out. This guy must’ve been told to make sure someone answered the door. Which meant—

My beautiful neighbor was obviously doing this on purpose to mess with me! I could feel my blood pressure rising. There was no way this was accidental anymore. She was playing games, and I was the target.

I gritted my teeth, fury bubbling up. She had to have told him to keep knocking until someone answered. This wasn’t just careless anymore. It was personal. I clenched my fists, rage prickling under my skin.

My scalp tingled with rage. I rushed to the door and shouted, “Just leave it at the door!” My voice was raw, echoing down the hallway. I didn’t care if I woke the whole floor.

My voice cracked from sleep and anger, but I didn’t care. I just wanted the knocking to stop. I pressed my forehead against the door, willing him to go away. The silence that followed was almost a relief.

Sure enough, the knocking stopped. I let out a shaky breath, listening for footsteps.

“Have a good night,” the delivery guy said. His voice was tired, almost apologetic. I could picture him rolling his eyes, ready to be done with this building for good. Poor guy probably hated this job as much as I hated being woken up.