Chapter 1: The Meowing at Midnight

Someone posted in the Maple Heights Building Five HOA Facebook group: "The folks upstairs keep stomping around at midnight. What should I do? (Or maybe I should just post it on Nextdoor and let the Ring doorbell crowd go wild?)"

The post was just another spark in the never-ending drama that played out online. Just last week, there was a full-blown argument about someone’s inflatable Halloween decorations blocking the sidewalk, and a month before that, a war over who kept leaving recycling bins in the wrong spot. I could almost picture someone sighing at their phone, scrolling through the comments while the glow of the screen lit up their face, the microwave humming in the background and a rerun of Friends playing on mute.

Someone else decided to stir the pot: "I've dealt with this before. First, download a recording of a kitten meowing onto your phone. Play it outside their door. Wait until they get curious and open up—then rush in and kill them! Stab them in the neck, stab them in the heart, then wrap the body in activated charcoal. No one will find it for weeks."

The comment had this twisted, almost gleeful energy—like the kind of post you read at 2 a.m. and instantly regret. My skin prickled as I read it, and I actually shivered, glancing over at my front door. The replies came in fast: some people dropped sarcastic GIFs, others replied with "Whoa, dude, chill," and a couple even posted the side-eye meme. But beneath the jokes, you could feel a ripple of unease. No one really knew who was behind these faceless accounts.

A while later…

My wife texted me: "Babe, you on your way? Ellie says she hears a kitten meowing outside our door!"

The text buzzed through as I drove home, windshield wipers clicking, headlights flickering off the wet pavement. At the next red light, I glanced at my phone, my heart giving that familiar little jolt of worry. Ellie was our daughter—she had a knack for catching things adults missed, and after dark, her imagination ran wild.

Meowing?

What meowing?

I was about to ask what was going on when another message popped up in the HOA group:

[That kitten's been sitting at the door meowing forever, and she still hasn't come out. Does your trick even work?]

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. For a second, the world slowed down. My hands started to tremble, sweat prickling my palms, and my heart thudded in my chest. It was that gut-level, primal fear—something was wrong, and it was way too close to home.

Suddenly, a chill ran down my spine. My hands shook as I typed, and I quickly warned my wife: "Ignore any noises! Don’t get curious! And whatever you do, don’t open the door."

The earlier message was from the Maple Heights Building Five group—and I live in Building Five. Right now, only my wife and daughter are at home.

Our condo complex is brand new, and the neighbors are a real mix. People argue in the group all the time, so a lot of us—including me—don’t list our unit numbers. We all know better than to put our addresses out there—too many weirdos online.

It’s one of those places where everyone’s a little wary, keeping their cards close to their chest. People moved in from all over—some from the city, some from out of state. You never really knew who was behind the screen name. The Facebook group was like a digital Wild West: snarky comments, passive-aggressive memes, someone posting a dancing skeleton GIF, and the occasional all-out brawl over parking spots or trash day. Somebody once even started a poll about the best local pizza place, and it turned into a debate about pineapple on pizza.

The person who complained about the noisy upstairs neighbors just had a profile picture of a goat’s head, and the one egging him on used a smiley face emoji for a name. Neither had their unit numbers listed.

My wife sent another message: "Babe, Ellie was telling the truth! There really is a kitten outside, meowing. It’s been going on for a while—I heard it too."

Ellie is my five-year-old daughter.

She’s got wild, curly hair and a habit of stuffing her pockets with shiny rocks from the playground. Her favorite snack is Goldfish crackers, and she’s obsessed with Bluey. She’s sensitive, too—every lost pet poster on a telephone pole makes her want to cry. So if she said there was a kitten, I knew she’d been listening for a while, probably with her ear pressed to the door.

I warned my wife again, this time trying to sound both urgent and calm: "Seriously, ignore it. Keep an eye on Ellie! There’s some creep out there—don’t open the door for anyone."

My wife left the group a while ago because someone kept posting weird memes and making inappropriate jokes. She’d had enough of the drama.

It was during one of those weeks when the trolls were out in full force, arguing about everything from recycling bins to whose dog barked too much. She’d texted me, fed up: “I’m done with these people.”

Now she’s not in the group and doesn’t know what’s happening. If I add her back, that goat-head nutjob might recognize her.

All I could do was forward the group chat to her.

[See, that goat-head said it’s too noisy upstairs.]

[Smiley face gave him an idea—told him to download a kitten meowing recording, trick you into opening the door, then kill you!]

[That goat-head must be in the hallway outside right now! That meowing sound is his recording!]

My wife asked, panicked: "What should I do?"

Me: "Call 911! Then call building management!"

Wife: "Okay! Got it! I’ll call now!"

Me: "Watch Ellie, don’t let her run out!"

Wife: "Mm, I sent Ellie to her room."

I could picture Ellie, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny, her little feet padding across the carpet as my wife gently nudged her down the hallway. Our place isn’t big, but it felt like a fortress now, every lock and bolt suddenly so important.

In the HOA group:

Smiley face asked: "What now? Still not done?"

Goat-head complained: "Maybe they can’t hear it inside? That cat keeps meowing, but there’s no reaction from that unit."