Chapter 1: Welcome to the Quackhouse

Next door lives a couple who are basically a box of matches in a fireworks store.

That metaphor nails it: every night, they spark and flare—sometimes a harmless fizz, sometimes an explosion that feels like it’ll burn the whole place down. You can almost taste the static crackling in the air when you walk past their door, like a July thunderstorm brewing over Lake Erie. Years of tenants have worn these walls paper-thin, and now they practically hum with the couple’s intensity.

Every night at midnight, their howling keeps me wide awake.

This isn’t just noise you can block out with a pillow or a white noise app. No, it’s the playlist of my insomnia—wild, unfiltered, and loud enough to make me wonder if I should just give up and buy stock in coffee. I’d start my mornings with Red Bull and end my nights with Tylenol PM, but nothing worked. I’d lie there, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to their voices ricochet off the walls like they owned the night, while my own dreams withered before they could even begin. By sunrise, I’d be so fried I’d forget what peace and quiet even sounded like.

I’ve tried everything—advice, cursing, even calling the cops—but nothing works.

Sometimes, after a particularly brutal night, I’d pound the wall with my fist and yell. Other times, I’d mutter threats under my breath, my words vanishing into the ancient plaster. I even called the Toledo PD in a fit of desperation. The cops would show up, knock politely, and leave with a shrug—just another unsolvable case on the city’s long list of neighbor nightmares.

So, I started hitting on his wife.

It wasn’t about attraction anymore. I just wanted to rattle the cage and see if I could shake up their circus. I’d flash her a grin in the hallway, hold the elevator way too long, toss a wink her way at the mailbox. She never responded, but I could practically feel her husband’s glare burning through the drywall.

On Valentine’s Day, I even slipped a note into a bouquet of roses:

"Has your husband found out about us?"

My hands were shaking as I did it, but the adrenaline was worth it. I pictured him reading it, veins bulging, thoughts spinning with jealousy. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I’d snatched back a little bit of power.

That was the last straw. Her husband exploded.

I heard the chaos—shouts slamming through the wall like gunshots, something heavy crashing to the floor. The whole building seemed to freeze. I rolled over in bed, grinning in the dark, satisfied for the first time in ages.