Beyond the Wall — Not Silence
“Turn that blasted television down!” shouted Margaret Petworth, banging her fist against the wall. “It’s the middle of the night—people are trying to sleep!”
In reply, the music swelled even louder, as though the flat next door had transformed into a concert hall where every orchestra in the world played at once.
“Mum, don’t fuss,” sighed Victoria, peering in from the kitchen with a teacup in hand. “Just talk to them properly tomorrow.”
“Properly?” Margaret turned on her daughter, eyes flashing with indignation. “I’ve been talking to them properly for a month! They’re either deaf or pretending to be!”
Another crash came through the wall—deep voices laughing, the thud of feet. Margaret pressed a hand to her chest.
“Lord above, what is this? When Mrs. Whitcombe lived there, God rest her soul, it was nothing but peace and quiet. But now—”
Victoria set her cup on the windowsill and crossed to her mother.
“Mum, why are you so upset? They’re young—they just want a bit of fun. Remember how Patrick and I used to race about the flat when we were little?”
“That was daytime! And you were children! But these—” Margaret waved a hand toward the wall. “Grown men behaving worse than schoolboys.”
Suddenly, the music stopped. In the hush that followed, only the ticking of the old kitchen clock and the faint murmur of voices seeped through the plaster.
“See?” Victoria breathed, relieved. “Maybe they’ve finally realised they’ve gone too far.”
But her relief was short-lived. Minutes later, a long, mournful howl pierced the silence—not human, but animal.
“What was that?” Victoria paled.
“A dog,” Margaret muttered. “Now they’ve got a dog. A big one, by the sound of it.”
The creature wailed as though its heart were breaking, the sound shifting between whimpers and agonised cries.
“Mum, what if it’s hurt? Should we check?”
“Check? They don’t care about anyone but themselves!” Margaret hammered the wall again. “Quiet over there! Can’t you hear? Calm that wretched dog!”
Muffled voices answered, but the words were lost. The dog fell silent for a moment before starting up again, louder than ever.
Margaret sank into her armchair, hands limp on her knees.
“Vicky, I can’t take this anymore. Night after night—music, shouting, that blasted animal. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
Her daughter perched on the armrest.
“Have you spoken to the constable?”
“I did. He came round, had a word with them. They kept quiet for one evening—then started right back up. He says there’s no proof. How do you prove noise? The moment he leaves, they carry on.”
Another crash sounded through the wall—something heavy being dragged, the scrape of furniture on wood.
“Rearranging the whole flat at this hour,” Margaret muttered. “Decent folk don’t act like this.”
“Mum… what if something’s really wrong? What if they aren’t doing it on purpose?”
“Are you defending them now?”
“No, but—remember what Gran said about old Mr. Higgins? He used to make a racket at night, but it was his illness—what was it, dementia? He didn’t know what he was doing.”
Margaret paused. The noise *was* odd—not like rowdy neighbours. Something almost… unnatural.
“Right,” she said, standing abruptly. “I’m going over there. Enough of this nonsense.”
“Mum, it’s one in the morning!”
“And they’re wide awake, aren’t they?”
She threw on her robe, shoved her feet into slippers, and marched onto the landing. The door of No. 38 looked perfectly ordinary—save for the peeling tape over the number, as though someone had tried to hide it.
She pressed the bell. The chime echoed inside, but no one answered. The noises continued—the dog howled again.
“Open up!” Margaret called. “I’m your neighbour!”
Silence. Then slow, cautious footsteps.
The door opened just a crack, held by a chain. A single grey, weary eye peered through.
“What d’you want?” a man’s voice asked.
“I live next door. The noise—your music, the dog—it’s keeping everyone awake.”
“What music?” The voice sounded genuinely puzzled.
“What do you mean? Can’t you hear it?”
From beyond him, faint but unmistakable, came the strains of a melancholy tune—too loud for the dead of night.
“Don’t hear a thing,” the man said.
Margaret faltered.
“But—it’s right there!”
“Madam, are you feeling quite all right? Should I call a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly well! And I hear perfectly too!”
The door shut. Margaret lingered on the landing, listening. The music still played—only now it sounded distant, as though drifting through time itself.
When she returned, she found Victoria pressing her ear to the wall.
“Well?” Margaret asked.
“It’s strange, Mum. I hear music, but it’s… not right. Like an old gramophone playing.”
“A gramophone? Who has one of those now?”
“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 own ear to the wall. There it was—a song from her youth. Between verses, tender voices murmured, laughing softly.
“Maybe they’re watching an old film?” Victoria suggested.
“At this hour? And why did that man say he couldn’t hear it?”
“Doubt he’s deaf, is he?”
They stood listening. One song faded into another—even older, from before the war. The voices grew softer, dissolving into whispers.
“Mum… remember what Gran said about that flat?”
“What about it?”
“That a young couple lived there once. Husband and wife, deeply in love. He went off to war and never came back. She waited for him her whole life.”
Margaret frowned.
“Vicky, don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous. Gran said Mrs. Whitcombe told her. They lived there in the forties. She’d play their favourite songs on the gramophone every night, right up till she passed.”
“And what’s your point?”
“What if… what if these sounds aren’t from the new neighbours?”
Margaret stepped back from the wall.
“Enough of this nonsense!”
Yet the music played on—wartime ballads, voices too real to dismiss. A man whispered something; a woman laughed. Then they sang together, softly.
“Mum, let’s go to bed. We’ll sort it tomorrow.”
But sleep wouldn’t come. The music didn’t stop—one song after another. Sometimes laughter, sometimes quiet sobs.
At dawn, Margaret resolved to settle the matter. She went down to the caretaker.
“Mrs. Porter, who lives in No. 38 now?”
“No one,” the woman said without looking up from her newspaper.
“No one? There’s certainly someone there!”
“Mrs. Petworth, that flat’s been empty since Mrs. Whitcombe passed a month and a half ago. No next of kin—the management’s still sorting the paperwork.”
“But I *saw* him! A man answered the door!”
Mrs. Porter finally glanced up.
“What man? Are you feeling quite yourself, Mrs. Petworth?”
“I’m perfectly fine! And I can *hear* the music!”
“What music? The flat’s empty!”
Margaret returned home shaken. Victoria had left for work. The day passed in silence—until evening, when the music began again.
This time, Margaret didn’t complain. She sat in her chair and listened. Old, beautiful songs. Young, joyful voices singing in harmony. Gradually, her frustration melted away. The sounds weren’t a nuisance—they were a story. A love that defied time.
When Victoria returned, she found her mother weeping by the wall.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, dear. Just… listening to them.”
“Listening to who?”
“I don’t know. But they love each other so dearly. Can you hear him sing to her? And her answering… They’re happy.”
Victoria sat beside her. A lullaby drifted through the wall, sung in a woman’s gentle voice.
“Mum… do you think it really could be—”
“Could be what?”
“The couple Gran spoke of. Maybe they’re still there. Together.”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“Does it matter, Vicky? Whoever they are—they’re not alone. And they love each other. We’re just… listening to their story.”
From then on, Margaret never complained about the noise. Every evening, she’d sit and listen—to the songs, the laughter, the quiet moments. Victoria joined her. They didn’t question it. They simply accepted that love lived beyond the wall—old, eternal, untouched by time.
Then one night, the music stopped. For good.And when the new tenant moved in, bringing with him the quiet of the modern world, Margaret sometimes still pressed her ear to the wall, half-hoping to hear those faint, forgotten songs one last time.
