**Diary Entry – July 15th**
*”Turn off that blasted contraption! I can’t sleep because of you!”* A shout echoed through the door, followed by furious knocking and the relentless buzzing of the doorbell. I flinched, fumbling the remote. Beside me, Alex stirred irritably.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a bedside lamp. Outside, the sticky summer heat pressed in. I threw on my dressing gown and trudged to the door.
There stood a woman in her seventies—thin-lipped, sharp-eyed, clutching a mobile. Mrs. Margaret Whittaker, from the flat below. She wore a plain cotton dress and a look of pure indignation.
“Sorry, but who are you?” I asked, keeping the door on the latch. Fear prickled my skin.
“Margaret Whittaker. Third floor. That rattling machine of yours is shaking my ceiling. Turn. It. Off. Or I’ll call the police. Noise ordinances exist for a reason!”
I opened my mouth to reply, but she steamrolled on.
“Have you no consideration? The entire building suffers because of you!”
“It… doesn’t seem that loud?” I ventured. “We even tested it with the window open.”
“Loud enough to rattle my nerves! My heart’s pounding like a drum!”
“Fine, we’ll switch it off,” I muttered. “We didn’t realise it bothered anyone.”
“Well, now you do,” she snapped, before storming off.
I returned to the bedroom and killed the air con. Throwing open every window brought no relief—just a suffocating wave of heat. Alex gave up and showered while I lay staring at the ceiling. Not exactly how we’d imagined our first summer in our own flat…
We’d bought this two-bedder just months ago. Last summer’s rented hovel—a horror of lukewarm bucket baths and fans churning thick air—felt like a bad dream. The mortgage application had left my hands trembling, but we’d clung to the thought: *No one can dictate how we live now.*
Turns out, someone could.
Next morning, I bumped into Natalie, a neighbour we’d helped fix a leaky tap. Leaning against the lift wall, I sighed. “Nat… we ran the air con last night. Got an earful. Is it really *that* noisy?”
She arched a brow. “Let me guess. Margaret?”
I nodded.
“Ugh. She complains about *everything*. Our telly’s too loud, my son laughs too much. Once accused our cat of ‘jumping too heavily.’ We’ve learned to tune her out—she calls the council maybe twice a month. Annoying, but survivable.”
I stifled a laugh. “*The cat?*”
“Swear down. We don’t even use the telly anymore—headphones only. Harder to muzzle the kid and the cat, though.”
Later, I spotted Andrew—same air con model, right under Margaret’s window.
“She ever bother you?”
“Nah. Mine’s a proper rattler too. Mate said the install’s botched. Guess I’m just… charming?” He grinned.
“Anyone ever complain about us?”
“Not a peep. You two are ghosts. No kids, no drills, not even a yappy dog.”
Their answers unsettled me. That evening, I listened to our unit from the street. Barely a hum. So why the fuss? Maybe decibels weren’t the issue. Maybe Margaret just *hated* us. Some people despise others’ happiness.
What followed was purgatory. We’d blast cooling early, rationing it to sneak 30 extra minutes with the windows shut. Set alarms for 10:59 PM. A minute late? Radiator pounding. Five minutes? She’d be at the door.
We tried fans—louder than the air con, yet somehow *fine* by Margaret’s standards.
Even called a technician, the responsible neighbours we were. He tweaked the mountings, added dampeners.
“Already quiet, honestly. Now it’s barely a whisper. Can’t—and shouldn’t—go quieter.”
Relief, brief as a summer breeze.
Two nights later, at 11:03 PM, my phone lit up.
“Is that *your* air con?!” Margaret’s voice crackled. “My walls are *shaking*! My *blood pressure*—”
“We had it serviced. The technician said—”
“*I’m* the one losing sleep! Turn it off *now* or I’ll have your landlord evict you!”
Alex killed it. Back to the fan’s dull roar.
Then I noticed: Margaret wasn’t exactly silent herself. Late-night phone screeches about her *”ungrateful daughter”*—*”Only call when you need money!”*—pierced our walls. Each rant left me unsettled, like I’d been shoved into someone else’s tragedy.
One sleepless night, sweating under a thin sheet, I remembered falling asleep to distant drills and muted music in our old place. We’d never complained. You don’t move into a flat expecting tomb-quiet. Everyone tolerates *some* noise.
*Everyone except Margaret.*
Late August brought a heatwave. When my parents invited us to their cottage, we jumped at it. Cool air, no Margaret—just sun-warmed garden chores and the debate of sausages versus grilled fish for dinner. Bliss.
Until 1:30 AM. Alex’s phone buzzed. *Her.*
“*You’re* at it *again*!” Margaret shrieked. “I haven’t slept *all night*!”
Alex, cold as ice: “Margaret. We’re *in Dorset.* The flat’s empty.”
“*Liar!* I *hear* it! I’ll *sue* if this gives me a heart attack—”
Next day, Mum checked our flat. “*Silent. Just the fridge humming.*”
That sealed it. Not about noise. About control.
We blocked her number, disabled the doorbell.
First few nights? Like thieves in our own home. She’d pound the door for hours, screeching about *”no respect these days.”* On night three, another neighbour snapped: “*Call the police on yourself! You’re the one keeping *us* up!”*
A week later, a tired PC knocked. “*Formality,*” he murmured, taking our statement. “*Be kind—she’s… difficult.*” No reprimand. Just a man who knew the score.
We still don’t blast music at midnight. Still tidy the shared stairs. But we’ve stopped dancing to Margaret’s tune where it crosses the line into madness.
