Chapter 2: Nocturnal Duck Calls

I just moved in recently, and my neighbors are a middle-aged couple.

Toledo isn’t exactly a city of dreams, but the rent was cheap and the old brick building had this faded, stubborn charm. Next door—him with a beer belly, her with a laugh like she’d gargled gravel—had lived here forever, at least according to the old lady across the hall. My moving boxes still sat unpacked in the living room, but their nightly soundtrack made sure I never forgot where I’d landed.

I haven’t actually met them yet, but I already know their relationship is rock solid.

That kind of solid that happens when two people are either madly in love or just too stubborn to quit. Either way, they were glued together tighter than my grandma’s off-limits sofa cushions.

How do I know?

I hear it. Every single night.

The first time, I thought someone was watching TV too loud. But nope—it was all them. Their raw, relentless, inescapable symphony became my new bedtime story.

They go at it like it’s mating season at the zoo.

Some nights, I’d wonder if Animal Planet would pay for a live feed. Maybe I should call Animal Planet and tell them I’ve got a new species: Homo Quackus. They had that primal enthusiasm, like they were auditioning for a nature documentary with Morgan Freeman narrating. I’d even catch myself humming the "Planet Earth" theme as I brushed my teeth.

I live in an old apartment complex in Toledo, and the soundproofing is basically nonexistent.

You can hear everything: creaking floorboards, rattling pipes, and, most nights, the steady percussion of their headboard against the wall. Sometimes, it’s arguments from two floors down or the kid upstairs dribbling a basketball at midnight, but nothing compares to the nightly lovefest next door.

After they’re done, the guy lights up a cigarette—I can even hear the flick of his lighter, clear as day.

That click—soft, metallic, final—always made me grind my teeth. It was his victory lap, like a drummer’s rimshot after a solo. Sometimes the smoke would drift through the vent, laced with cheap tobacco and triumph, and I’d bury my face in a pillow, praying for a breeze to carry it away.

Honestly, I don’t want to end up telling their second kid, years from now, “Hey, I literally listened to you grow up.”

It’d be the ultimate awkward family story. Picture Thanksgiving, me at the grown-up table, looking their kid in the eye and thinking, “Buddy, I was there at the very beginning.” I shuddered at the thought, half amused, half horrified.

But the worst part is the woman. Her voice is so raspy that when she moans, it sounds like a duck. And she’s got some serious lung power.

Seriously, it’s like she chased whiskey with sandpaper. The first time I heard it, I actually laughed—until it kept going. And going. Like she was dead-set on outlasting every duck at the city park.

Every night, I get a full-blown, demonic, surround-sound duck performance:

"Quack quack quack quack quack ha ha ha ha quack quack quack ha ha ha ha."

It’s not even rhythmic—just wild and unpredictable, a quack-cackle-quack that makes my skin crawl. Some nights, I tried to count the quacks, but I’d lose track around thirty. It was like counting sheep, except the sheep were ducks and none of them would shut up.

I feel like I’m trapped at a Donald Duck convention.

You know that feeling when you’re stuck in line at a theme park next to kids with squeaky duck whistles? Imagine that at midnight, through paper-thin walls, echoing off everything you own. That’s my life now.

One time, I had a nightmare. I dreamed I was back at my junior year SAT practice test. Less than a month to go, I grabbed the test and—crap, I couldn’t answer a single question. Cold sweat poured down my back.

It was the classic anxiety dream—palms sweaty, failure pressing on my shoulders. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, the air tasted like old chalk, and my mind was blank except for this creeping dread.

My homeroom teacher glared at me, grabbed the whiteboard eraser, and hurled it at my head. When it hit me, it turned into a duck neck.

Time slowed as the eraser morphed, feathers and beak sprouting mid-air. It flopped onto my desk, quivering, and I knew—this was only the beginning.

The classroom reeked of chalk dust and pond water, the air thick with the sound of quacking. The teacher opened his mouth: "Quack quack quack quack quack."

Now his face was half-human, half-duck, glasses sliding down a bright orange bill. He glared, feathers ruffling with each syllable.

All my classmates turned, quacking in unison: "Quack quack quack quack quack."

A sea of duck faces, all eyes fixed on me, mouths opening and closing in sync. My heart hammered. Even my best friend Mike had sprouted a beak and was quacking with the rest.

The classroom turned into a giant duck pond, everyone charging at me, quacking away.

Desks vanished, replaced by water. I flailed, desperate, as webbed feet splashed closer. The walls melted into cattails and mud, and the smell of lake water filled my nose. I tried to scream, but only a quack came out.

I woke up terrified, back drenched in sweat, heart pounding.

It took me a few seconds to realize I was back in bed, safe. But the relief faded quick when the next wave of quacks drifted through the wall. Not even my nightmares were safe anymore.

Next door, the quacking was still going strong: "Quack quack quack quack ha ha ha ha quack quack quack."

At this point, I wondered if they had some secret code—maybe a duck-based Morse. Maybe they were trying out for a new reality show: America’s Next Top Waterfowl.

I stared at the ceiling, seriously considering writing an essay called "A Nightmare in Duckland."

Half memoir, half horror story. Maybe a magazine would pick it up. At least then I’d get something out of my misery—besides insomnia and the urge to move out by the end of the month.

The last time I heard such a weird noise was when my lab partner watched 'Breaking Bad' during study hall and imitated the villain’s evil laugh at me: "Heh heh heh heh."

It was the kind of sound that stuck with you, echoing even when you tried to forget. My buddy Justin used to do it just to mess with me, and I’d always end up jumping out of my skin. But at least he stopped when I told him to. My neighbors? Not so much.

No way—I can’t take this anymore.

After weeks of failed solutions and lost sleep, I finally snapped. I threw on a hoodie over my pajamas, combed my hair with my fingers, and stormed out into the hallway, determined to face the beast head-on.

So I knocked on their door.

The old wood vibrated under my fist. I took a deep breath, rehearsing my lines in my head, ready for anything. Or so I thought.