My neighbor over the fence is coincidentally going on a…
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My neighbor over the fence is coincidentally going on a run at the same time I go out to smoke a cigarette every night. And I’m starting to have suspicions that he’s not real.
Every night, usually between the hours of two and three a.m., I somehow always make my way out to the small balcony of my second-story apartment. Whether it’s a reaction to waking from a short burst of sleep halfway through the night, or my persistent insomnia gripping me up until the given hour, I will somehow always manage to make my way back to my balcony’s old rocking chair to meet the grasping haze of my menthol cigarettes.
And every night, without fail, my neighbor over the fence will be on a midnight run around the parking lot of the adjoining complex. I never plan it. And I assume he doesn’t either. But it always happens—every night.
I can see a faint outline of him through the sparse treeline that hugs our connecting fence. And I can hear him even better. His feet scrape the asphalt beneath him, seemingly barely able to leave the ground. He always makes three laps at least, sometimes a handful or two at most. When he’s finally finished, he announces his triumph with a nearly breathless, “woo!”
I wonder if he expects to see me every night now, too. My wavering silhouette rocking before the pale orange light of the balcony bulb. I hope it doesn’t disturb him. He doesn’t disturb me. In fact, it’s quite comforting to have a stranger do parallel play with me at a time that still.
Don’t worry, the irony of how his nightly activity will directly assist in lengthening his lifespan while my habitual cigarette-sucking will do nothing but shorten the longevity of my already disadvantaged body is not lost on me.
But the synchronicity is nice. What are the odds that two people, within eyesight of one another, are around at the same time to keep the other company at three in the morning?
It makes me wonder who else might be thinking of me at this time.
Is she thinking of me when I’m thinking of her?
Does she think about me the way that I think about her?
Does she know that I think that way?
Does she hate me for it?
Even if she doesn’t hate me, I do.
I know this sultry sadness and shame will leave me once I finally manage to wrestle my way into a half-restful sleep. But, even as exhausted as I am, I still want to hold onto it.
Sorry, I got a bit off topic. I’m telling you all about my neighbor, not her. But, if any of you want to hear about her, it won’t take much convincing for me to spill it all.
Anyways, a few things have happened in the past month that are causing me to doubt whether or not my nightly companion is… well, real. I know, it sounds absurd. And maybe I should consider seeing a mental health professional about deluding myself into thinking this way. But please just hear me out. If any of you think the evidence I have gathered of his existence being supernatural, or any kind of abnormal is ridiculous, I will seriously consider getting evaluated. There is always the chance that my insomnia is causing something to go wrong in my head. I’m not opposed to any perspectives for or against my suspicions.
First, there are some nights when I don’t see my neighbor. But that’s not necessarily because he’s not out on his jog. My smoking habit has been very touch-and-go for the last several months. Sometimes I manage to quit for a few days, maybe even a few weeks. So, when I’m not smoking, I don’t go out to the balcony.
The small area of the concrete catwalk is an absolute mess. There is an ever-growing sea of discarded cigarette boxes scattered on the ground, and the ash tray perpetually overflows with stale-smelling cigarette butts. When I do finally get annoyed at the lack of room in the ash tray, I’ll occasionally empty its contents into Ziploc bags that just end up joining their former packaging on the floor below.
I don’t know why the mess doesn’t bother me. It’s undeniably gross, and the smell of used tobacco and old saliva only make the eyesore of the whole place worse. But I just can’t bring myself to care enough to clean it all up. The only time I’ll do it is when I have friends coming over. And that doesn’t happen often enough for me to have an established schedule of keeping it up. Most of my friends wouldn’t mind the mess anyway. Or at least, I wouldn’t care about their opinion of it.
If June were to come over though, I would definitely care more. She won’t ever come to the house, though. She made that very clear. “He would be upset,” she always says. “I have to respect his boundaries.” What kind of boyfriend makes a big deal about his girlfriend going over to a friend’s house? It’s weird. And it’s even weirder that she allows him to dictate who she can hang out with and where. But, of course, she doesn’t agree with my assessment. It makes me wonder, is it me she has a problem with? Is the whole “boyfriend” excuse just a deflection for how she actually feels about being in my house? She doesn’t make it seem that way. I don’t know what it is.
Shit, I strayed off again. The reason I bring up the fact that I am not outside every single night to see my neighbor is because it makes the times that I do see him feel more coincidental. What I mean is, the times that I am out on the balcony on any given night vary. Sometimes it’s as early as 2:15am or as late as 3:45am. But, no matter the time, he is always jogging close enough for me to see and hear him within the same five to ten minute interval that it takes for me to smoke a cigarette.
The length of his complex’s parking lot is not that large. I can discern its size a lot better in the daylight. At most, it’s a hundred feet in length and maybe thirty feet across, if I’m being generous. It is definitely a decent enough size to facilitate a handful of sprints up and down the lot, but not at all adequate enough to enable an extended endurance run. There is always the chance that my neighbor is an insane, meth-smoking idiot who is content with running around in what is essentially small circles for hours on end, but I just don’t believe that it can be that simple. Why are we always in-sync with our nighttime rituals? And why was I chosen to be the one to witness his, and he to be the spectator of mine?
Maybe I am overthinking it. It all could have a perfectly reasonable explanation. But there is one more thing that I haven’t been able to shake off. On the nights that I am particularly exhausted, or maybe even a little bit too drunk, he seems to do something more than just jogging. Sometimes, once I begin to hear the sound of his feet dragging sluggishly across the asphalt, his footsteps travel further up the parking lot, all the way to our adjoining fence. Then the creaking starts. The aged wood of the fence starts groaning, almost like he’s leaning on it.
It’s hard to tell in the dark, even with the balcony light on, but I think I can see the fence bending a little, too. But, it isn’t bending from the top of the wall. Instead, the planks bow in the middle. In different spots of the fence too. Sometimes all at once, across three or four feet. The wood of the fence doesn’t bend like wood should, though. It flexes in and out repeatedly, almost like memory foam, curving back and forth as pressure is applied and released on each point. It’s unnatural and eerie.
The first time I saw it, my body broke out in goosebumps and I almost pissed myself. I hurried inside and went to bed, blaming it on the amount of whiskey I’d had. But then it happened again, about a week later. I had almost managed to forget that the first incident had even happened. But, luckily for me, I happened to not be as shit-faced as I was before.
I definitely saw that fence bending and waving like it was a piece of stretched fabric rather than a row of wooden planks that have been anchored there for years. The worst part was, after about a minute of watching the wood weave back and forth, I started to hear a sound. A moan. A low and guttural, almost pained growling.
It started so quietly at first that I almost didn’t notice it until it was undeniably loud. It sounded like a man whose vocal cords had been stripped bare and was trying to scream in agony, but could only manage a fraction of his physical capacity to push out a strained and prolonged moan of distress. The only thing I can compare it to is if a death rattle had vocal power behind it. It was awful. I rushed back inside my house and grabbed my phone in an attempt to record it, just to confirm for myself that I wasn’t going crazy. But when I came back out to the balcony, the sound was gone. Actually, most of the sounds were gone. The sound of my neighbor jogging, the sounds of cars on the nearby road, even the chirping of the crickets seemed turned down to an almost inaudible warbling. I suddenly became overwhelmed with a ringing in my ears and dull throbbing in my head that only subsided once I got into my bedroom at the very back of the house. The whole thing was so creepy. Almost unearthly.
That was two weeks ago, and it hasn’t happened again. Unfortunately, the experience has not resulted in me refraining from going out for cigarettes during the night. In fact, it’s made me have the impulse to give myself a buzz more than ever. I’ve been more careful about overindulging in alcohol, but my cigarettes are something I cannot stand to part with. The comfort of my nightly routine, while it has definitely been infringed upon by my companion’s creepy behaviors, is still a non-negotiable in my never-ending cycle of repeatedly trying to court and delay sleep.
It’s almost 5:00 a.m. now, and I’ll surely be sleeping soon. June and I are meeting up tomorrow to get coffee. Cafes and restaurants that operate during daylight hours and close before nightfall are June’s preferred stomping grounds for her and I. She says her boyfriend doesn’t like it when we “close places down” super late when we hangout. God, I cannot stand that guy.
Please let me know what you guys think about my neighbor. And I will certainly report back if any new activity occurs. Although, I hope to God it doesn’t. I almost hope it’s all in my head, as backwards as that sounds.
Author's note: Stayed tuned for future parts if you are into doomed yuri.
#entertainment
source
Every night, usually between the hours of two and three a.m., I somehow always make my way out to the small balcony of my second-story apartment. Whether it’s a reaction to waking from a short burst of sleep halfway through the night, or my persistent insomnia gripping me up until the given hour, I will somehow always manage to make my way back to my balcony’s old rocking chair to meet the grasping haze of my menthol cigarettes.
And every night, without fail, my neighbor over the fence will be on a midnight run around the parking lot of the adjoining complex. I never plan it. And I assume he doesn’t either. But it always happens—every night.
I can see a faint outline of him through the sparse treeline that hugs our connecting fence. And I can hear him even better. His feet scrape the asphalt beneath him, seemingly barely able to leave the ground. He always makes three laps at least, sometimes a handful or two at most. When he’s finally finished, he announces his triumph with a nearly breathless, “woo!”
I wonder if he expects to see me every night now, too. My wavering silhouette rocking before the pale orange light of the balcony bulb. I hope it doesn’t disturb him. He doesn’t disturb me. In fact, it’s quite comforting to have a stranger do parallel play with me at a time that still.
Don’t worry, the irony of how his nightly activity will directly assist in lengthening his lifespan while my habitual cigarette-sucking will do nothing but shorten the longevity of my already disadvantaged body is not lost on me.
But the synchronicity is nice. What are the odds that two people, within eyesight of one another, are around at the same time to keep the other company at three in the morning?
It makes me wonder who else might be thinking of me at this time.
Is she thinking of me when I’m thinking of her?
Does she think about me the way that I think about her?
Does she know that I think that way?
Does she hate me for it?
Even if she doesn’t hate me, I do.
I know this sultry sadness and shame will leave me once I finally manage to wrestle my way into a half-restful sleep. But, even as exhausted as I am, I still want to hold onto it.
Sorry, I got a bit off topic. I’m telling you all about my neighbor, not her. But, if any of you want to hear about her, it won’t take much convincing for me to spill it all.
Anyways, a few things have happened in the past month that are causing me to doubt whether or not my nightly companion is… well, real. I know, it sounds absurd. And maybe I should consider seeing a mental health professional about deluding myself into thinking this way. But please just hear me out. If any of you think the evidence I have gathered of his existence being supernatural, or any kind of abnormal is ridiculous, I will seriously consider getting evaluated. There is always the chance that my insomnia is causing something to go wrong in my head. I’m not opposed to any perspectives for or against my suspicions.
First, there are some nights when I don’t see my neighbor. But that’s not necessarily because he’s not out on his jog. My smoking habit has been very touch-and-go for the last several months. Sometimes I manage to quit for a few days, maybe even a few weeks. So, when I’m not smoking, I don’t go out to the balcony.
The small area of the concrete catwalk is an absolute mess. There is an ever-growing sea of discarded cigarette boxes scattered on the ground, and the ash tray perpetually overflows with stale-smelling cigarette butts. When I do finally get annoyed at the lack of room in the ash tray, I’ll occasionally empty its contents into Ziploc bags that just end up joining their former packaging on the floor below.
I don’t know why the mess doesn’t bother me. It’s undeniably gross, and the smell of used tobacco and old saliva only make the eyesore of the whole place worse. But I just can’t bring myself to care enough to clean it all up. The only time I’ll do it is when I have friends coming over. And that doesn’t happen often enough for me to have an established schedule of keeping it up. Most of my friends wouldn’t mind the mess anyway. Or at least, I wouldn’t care about their opinion of it.
If June were to come over though, I would definitely care more. She won’t ever come to the house, though. She made that very clear. “He would be upset,” she always says. “I have to respect his boundaries.” What kind of boyfriend makes a big deal about his girlfriend going over to a friend’s house? It’s weird. And it’s even weirder that she allows him to dictate who she can hang out with and where. But, of course, she doesn’t agree with my assessment. It makes me wonder, is it me she has a problem with? Is the whole “boyfriend” excuse just a deflection for how she actually feels about being in my house? She doesn’t make it seem that way. I don’t know what it is.
Shit, I strayed off again. The reason I bring up the fact that I am not outside every single night to see my neighbor is because it makes the times that I do see him feel more coincidental. What I mean is, the times that I am out on the balcony on any given night vary. Sometimes it’s as early as 2:15am or as late as 3:45am. But, no matter the time, he is always jogging close enough for me to see and hear him within the same five to ten minute interval that it takes for me to smoke a cigarette.
The length of his complex’s parking lot is not that large. I can discern its size a lot better in the daylight. At most, it’s a hundred feet in length and maybe thirty feet across, if I’m being generous. It is definitely a decent enough size to facilitate a handful of sprints up and down the lot, but not at all adequate enough to enable an extended endurance run. There is always the chance that my neighbor is an insane, meth-smoking idiot who is content with running around in what is essentially small circles for hours on end, but I just don’t believe that it can be that simple. Why are we always in-sync with our nighttime rituals? And why was I chosen to be the one to witness his, and he to be the spectator of mine?
Maybe I am overthinking it. It all could have a perfectly reasonable explanation. But there is one more thing that I haven’t been able to shake off. On the nights that I am particularly exhausted, or maybe even a little bit too drunk, he seems to do something more than just jogging. Sometimes, once I begin to hear the sound of his feet dragging sluggishly across the asphalt, his footsteps travel further up the parking lot, all the way to our adjoining fence. Then the creaking starts. The aged wood of the fence starts groaning, almost like he’s leaning on it.
It’s hard to tell in the dark, even with the balcony light on, but I think I can see the fence bending a little, too. But, it isn’t bending from the top of the wall. Instead, the planks bow in the middle. In different spots of the fence too. Sometimes all at once, across three or four feet. The wood of the fence doesn’t bend like wood should, though. It flexes in and out repeatedly, almost like memory foam, curving back and forth as pressure is applied and released on each point. It’s unnatural and eerie.
The first time I saw it, my body broke out in goosebumps and I almost pissed myself. I hurried inside and went to bed, blaming it on the amount of whiskey I’d had. But then it happened again, about a week later. I had almost managed to forget that the first incident had even happened. But, luckily for me, I happened to not be as shit-faced as I was before.
I definitely saw that fence bending and waving like it was a piece of stretched fabric rather than a row of wooden planks that have been anchored there for years. The worst part was, after about a minute of watching the wood weave back and forth, I started to hear a sound. A moan. A low and guttural, almost pained growling.
It started so quietly at first that I almost didn’t notice it until it was undeniably loud. It sounded like a man whose vocal cords had been stripped bare and was trying to scream in agony, but could only manage a fraction of his physical capacity to push out a strained and prolonged moan of distress. The only thing I can compare it to is if a death rattle had vocal power behind it. It was awful. I rushed back inside my house and grabbed my phone in an attempt to record it, just to confirm for myself that I wasn’t going crazy. But when I came back out to the balcony, the sound was gone. Actually, most of the sounds were gone. The sound of my neighbor jogging, the sounds of cars on the nearby road, even the chirping of the crickets seemed turned down to an almost inaudible warbling. I suddenly became overwhelmed with a ringing in my ears and dull throbbing in my head that only subsided once I got into my bedroom at the very back of the house. The whole thing was so creepy. Almost unearthly.
That was two weeks ago, and it hasn’t happened again. Unfortunately, the experience has not resulted in me refraining from going out for cigarettes during the night. In fact, it’s made me have the impulse to give myself a buzz more than ever. I’ve been more careful about overindulging in alcohol, but my cigarettes are something I cannot stand to part with. The comfort of my nightly routine, while it has definitely been infringed upon by my companion’s creepy behaviors, is still a non-negotiable in my never-ending cycle of repeatedly trying to court and delay sleep.
It’s almost 5:00 a.m. now, and I’ll surely be sleeping soon. June and I are meeting up tomorrow to get coffee. Cafes and restaurants that operate during daylight hours and close before nightfall are June’s preferred stomping grounds for her and I. She says her boyfriend doesn’t like it when we “close places down” super late when we hangout. God, I cannot stand that guy.
Please let me know what you guys think about my neighbor. And I will certainly report back if any new activity occurs. Although, I hope to God it doesn’t. I almost hope it’s all in my head, as backwards as that sounds.
Author's note: Stayed tuned for future parts if you are into doomed yuri.
#entertainment
source
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