Chapter 1: The Cry That Wouldn’t Stop

Late at night, the baby in 404 kept crying and crying, nonstop. The wails cut through the thin drywall, sharp enough to set my teeth on edge. I buried my head under a pillow, but it was useless.

The building’s Facebook Messenger group chat was blowing up.

The constant ping of notifications was almost as relentless as the baby's wailing. It seemed like everyone in the building was awake, phones lighting up their dark bedrooms as the complaints rolled in.

After a while, the owner of 404 sent a message:

[I'll shut him up, swear to God. Sorry, everyone.]

1

After 404 sent that message, the whole group chat went dead silent.

Nobody reacted. Maybe they were stunned, maybe just too tired to deal with it. It was the kind of thing you’d expect from an edgy meme, not your neighbor. I could practically feel a chill running through the wires, the air in my bedroom getting heavier. My skin prickled. Was he joking? Was anyone else about to call 911, or were we all just staring at our screens, frozen?

Because, weirdly enough, the baby’s crying really did stop immediately.

It was almost eerie how sudden the quiet was. The walls, usually so thin you could hear people sneeze, were now pressing in with a thick, loaded silence.

A few minutes later, messages started popping up in the group:

302 said: [Dude, not cool. That’s messed up, especially at 2am.]

504 chimed in: [Yeah, just comfort the kid, don’t take it out on him.]

601 sounded even more concerned: [@404 Neighbor, are you okay? Need any help?]

402 sounded a bit panicked: [It really did suddenly go quiet, I can’t hear anything now… Did something actually happen? How could the baby just stop crying all of a sudden?]

After 402 said that, the group went silent again.

No more pings. Just the blue glow of my phone, and the kind of hush that makes you realize how thin the walls really are.

By now, I was wide awake, because I live in 401—damn, that’s the same floor as 404.

From what I remember, 404 is home to a rather odd family of three.

The man is tall and skinny. He’s got that Midwestern polite thing going on—always says hi, but you can tell he’s the type who keeps his curtains drawn.

Even when we meet, he’s always polite, makes small talk about his wife and his baby who’s not even a year old yet.

But you can tell it’s forced.

His conversations always seem rehearsed, like he’s mimicking what he thinks a normal neighbor should say. Sometimes he’d bring up the weather or ask if my trash pickup was missed too, but his eyes never quite matched his words.

As for his wife, I’ve never seen her—maybe because I’m always out for work, and she’s always home with the kid.

All in all, a strange family, and a strange man.

So, thinking about it, he really might do something extreme…

That thought had my heart rate ticking up, each beat loud in the hush of my apartment. My palms were slick. I found myself holding my breath, straining to hear anything through the wall.

But luckily, it was a false alarm.

Because 504 quickly sent another message:

[@404 Don’t scare us and then just go to sleep! If you don’t explain, I’m calling the cops.]

Only then did 404 reply:

[Just kidding, the kid’s mom got up to feed him and calmed him down. He’s not crying anymore.]

Only then did I breathe a sigh of relief.

But weirdly, no one else replied in the group—maybe everyone was just spooked.

I stared at the screen for a while, thumb hovering, wondering if I should say something too. But I didn’t. The mood in the group chat was off, everyone pretending to go back to bed, phones still clutched tight.

I was about to put my phone down and go back to sleep, but then another group chat notification popped up.

I opened it—it was the group we used when we all moved in and bought furniture together.

404 wasn’t in this group.

The first to speak was 504:

[Did you guys notice? Something’s off with 404.]

402 replied right away: [What’s off?]

504 sent a few messages in a row:

[The baby cried for half an hour, and the mom didn’t feed him?]

[And babies aren’t like adults—their crying always fades gradually, even after feeding they’ll sob a bit, it wouldn’t just cut off instantly.]

[I just think something’s wrong.]