Chapter 5: Hymns and Home Remedies

I dug out a cardboard box, put a subwoofer inside, and stuffed three sides with foam. The unsoundproofed side pressed right up against the wall. Volume to max.

I felt like a mad scientist, wires everywhere, sweat beading on my forehead. My hands shook a little as I set it up, the anticipation almost as strong as the caffeine buzz from my third cup of gas station coffee.

I blasted a recording of church hymns.

["Amazing grace, how sweet the sound..."]

The choir’s voices soared, filling my apartment with a sense of holiness I hadn’t felt since my grandma dragged me to Sunday school. I sat back, letting the music wash over me, hoping it would drown out the quacks on the other side of the wall.

As the solemn singing filled the air, I felt instantly refreshed—mind and body cleansed.

It was like opening a window on the first warm day of spring. For a moment, I almost forgot about my neighbors, lost in the familiar chords and harmonies.

In this pure sanctuary, I wanted to see if they’d really keep going in front of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and the twelve apostles.

I pictured the look on their faces as the music blared through the wall. Would they stop? Would they be embarrassed? Or would they just get louder? Either way, it felt like the ultimate test.

Sure enough, the holy choir moved them to stop.

I listened, holding my breath, as the quacking faded. Silence. Sweet, blessed silence. I almost wept with relief.

"Honey, I think the Lord’s appeared, quack."

Her voice was muffled, but I heard every word. I stifled a laugh, imagining her looking around the room for a sign from above.

"Appeared my ass, it’s the neighbor messing around!" He pounded on the wall. "Turn off the music! Who the hell plays church music in the middle of the night? Are you nuts?!"

The wall shook with each bang, but I didn’t care. For once, I was the one in control. I turned the volume up another notch, just for good measure.

Me: "Peace be with you. Since you don’t appreciate the gospel, this humble neighbor also knows a bit of self-defense."

I shouted through the wall, putting on my best Sunday school voice. I knew I sounded ridiculous, but at this point, I was way past caring.

He was furious, banging on my door again.

The whole building echoed with the sound. I took my time getting up, savoring every second of his frustration.

I grabbed a kitchen knife and handed it over: "Tonight, either you kill me, or go home and hold it in—enough with this nonsense."

I opened the door just wide enough to stick out my hand, knife gleaming under the hallway lights. His eyes went wide, and for a moment, he looked genuinely scared.

He was caught off guard, just stared at me, dumbfounded.

His bravado vanished, replaced by confusion. He stammered, searching for words that wouldn’t come.

Guess he usually scares people with this routine, but today he met me—the king of reckless tenants.

I stood tall, feet planted, daring him to make a move. For once, he was the one on the back foot, and it felt damn good.

He didn’t dare take the knife. The flush faded from his face.

He shrank back, eyes darting from me to the knife, then back again. I watched as his confidence crumbled, replaced by something that looked almost like respect.

He even stammered, "You, you’re making so much noise at night—how’s anyone supposed to sleep?"

I stared at him, stunned. Did he really just try to flip this on me? I almost burst out laughing, but held it in, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

I was so stunned I couldn’t even react: "Are you stealing my lines now?"

The irony was almost too much. I shook my head, disbelief etched on my face, then waited for his next move.

He sneered, "You just moved here and you’re already going against me? Are you looking to get hurt?"

He puffed up his chest again, but the bravado was gone. He was on the defensive now, grasping at straws.

I leaned in, chin up, practically daring him: "Go ahead, tough guy."

He hesitated, then backed down, muttering curses under his breath.

He pointed at me, finger trembling: "Fine, fine, just you wait."

His threats sounded hollow now, like a bad villain in a straight-to-DVD movie. I rolled my eyes, not even bothering to respond.

That’s what losers always say. I ignored him, closed the door.

I turned the lock with a satisfying click, then flopped onto my couch, relief washing over me. For once, I felt like I’d won.

Finally, peace and quiet. I slept like a baby.

That night, I drifted off to the sound of silence—a rare, precious thing in my corner of Toledo. I slept deeper than I had in weeks, waking up feeling almost human again.

As the last notes of “Amazing Grace” faded, I waited—half expecting the ceiling to cave in, half hoping for a miracle.