I knew my neighbor had moved out a few months ago but… “No one else has moved in?”

“No.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say, and hang up. I’m confused. I put my ear to the wall to listen again, but whatever—whoever—it was has stopped.

It's dreadfully quiet for a long moment, and then I hear the voice again. The angry man with the beautiful voice. He sounds frustrated. Cold. Ominous.

Frightening.

Creeped out, I get off the couch and peer through the peep hole into the hall. It’s silent and empty. I take a deep breath, open my door, and approach the door down the hall from mine. 6B.

All is quiet.

I think for a moment, then race back into my apartment and grab my keys. I head down to my car on the street despite the fact that I’m in pajamas, and lean against it, staring up at the windows of the building. There’s my apartment, with the lights on and the half-dead fern on the stoop that I really need to water. To the right of it should be 6B.

The windows are black, the blinds down.

I head back to my apartment, confused. The moment I shut the door again, the voice starts up once more. Angry. Irritated. Superior. Argumentative.

A squatter, maybe? But who’s he arguing with in the dark? I get up and head into the hall again, to the door. I knock.

It’s silent.

I put my ear to the door.

Silence.

I carefully test the door knob. Locked.

Frowning, I go back inside my apartment and look at the window. We’re four floors up, and the only window in the apartment is facing outside. There’s not enough of a ledge out there for a bird, much less for someone to break in.

Even as I consider this, the voice on the other side of the wall starts again.

I grit my teeth, sit down on the sofa and pull my laptop onto my legs, firing up my browser. I google, "Symptoms of schizophrenia."

And then google, "I hear conversations no one else does."

And then google, "Am I being haunted?"

And finally search, "Sleep disorders causing waking dreams."

But none of it seems to match what I'm experiencing. I don't know what to do.

It’s late, Faith, I remind myself. Maybe he got pissed and shut the lights off and went to bed, and you’re imagining things.

I slap my laptop shut.

The voice wakes me up twice that night.

Both times, it's angry. Furious. Raging at something I can't hear or understand. The second time, just before dawn, it turns into a shout so loud and heartbroken that I clamp my pillow over my face and ears to muffle the sound of it.

It dies away and leaves a silence so profound it feels heavy.

What the hell is going on? I stare up at the ceiling and wonder what made my invisible “friend” so sad.

"It can't be that bad, buddy," I whisper to my empty room. "At least you're not hearing voices."

There's no response to my lame joke.

"Faith, I'm worried about you," Sherry tells me over lunch the next day. She clutches her egg salad sandwich tightly in her hands and gives me a dramatic look. "This isn't normal."

"I promise, I'm fine." I offer her a bright smile and wish she’d be quiet. She’s a good friend, but god, she loves the drama.

Sherry shakes her head solemnly, and it’s clear she doesn't buy it. "If everything's fine, why are you so distracted today?"

"Distracted? Me?” How does she know? I thought I'd been hiding it pretty well. I'm wearing my dressiest suit, I gave a customer service presentation a half hour ago that went over decently, and I'm having a good hair day. I thought I looked rather together. "How so?"

"Well for one, you're wearing black shoes with a navy suit."

Erk. Well, they already think I’m strange here at the office. No big deal. “That's not so weird—"

"And you're eating peanut butter and baloney on that sandwich." Her nostrils flare with horror.

I glance down at the sandwich I'm eating. Well, more like I'm “holding” it instead of eating. I haven’t been hungry lately, and I seem to be going through the motions for most of the day. I just can’t focus on anything but those odd voices.

Sherry’s not wrong, though. A quick look at my sandwich shows me one half is peanut butter, and one half is baloney. Ick. I guess I got sidetracked when making my lunch this morning. Maybe the birds outside will eat it. I set it on my paper lunch sack and shrug. “I read online that it was a good combination.”

“That’s called ‘trolling,’ honey.”

“Good one, huh? You want to try it?” I hold my sandwich out.

“Absolutely not.” She doesn’t share my amusement.

“Your loss,” I tell her brightly and decide to show her that I know what I’m doing. I pick up my sandwich and take a huge bite out of it…and it’s every bit as gross as I thought it would be. Oh god. It takes every muscle in my body to make my throat swallow the mess. I gulp my water to wash the taste out of my mouth.

Sherry gives me a stern look. ”Are you sure you’re okay? I worry about you.”

“I’m fine. I promise. I just…heard something last night and it kept me up.”

“Heard something? Like what?”

I get out my phone and pull up the video. “Listen to this. The apartment next to mine? It’s empty, according to the super. But I heard this last night.”

I hit “play” and…there’s not a single sound. Other than the rustling of my clothing, it’s all quiet.

She frowns at me again.

“I must have messed up the video,” I say quickly, stopping it and picking up my sandwich again so she doesn’t see how freaked out I am. I know I heard something. I know I did. “Maybe…maybe it was the guy in 4B. He does have a new dog.”

She makes a noise of sympathy in her throat, as if that solves everything. “Talk to him—”

“And my coffee maker's broken,” I add, because I need the lie to be convincing. Why not make it a dog pile of things? “And I was worried about the client retention report I was going to present today, which, spoiler, it turned out great.”

Sherry doesn’t care about my report. She’s not here to climb the corporate ladder. She’s here to socialize and bring home a paycheck for as little effort as possible. But I’ve spoken her language because she’s wearing a look of horror on her face. "No coffee? I'd die!"

"Right?" At least now we're in safe territory. I’ve thwarted her concerns for the day by lamenting about caffeine. She gets up and turns on the break room coffee pot, determined to help me with my beverage troubles, and as she does, she launches into a story about her son Julian and how he broke her Keurig by shoving wooden blocks into the K-Cup tray. I smile and laugh at the appropriate pauses, but my mind is wandering back to that voice.

A voice that only I can hear. Why me?

For two days, there's nothing. Not a peep, not a sound, not a sigh. Everything is completely silent, like it should be.

It weirds me out.

I pass by the apartment several times and knock, intending to be the busybody neighbor who introduces herself, but no one ever answers. I hang out on the street after dark with binoculars, waiting to see if a light goes on.

All is normal…which I’m pretty sure is bullshit.

I heard that guy. I heard him clear as day. So if someone’s not living there, does that mean there are squatters in the building? Is it unsafe?

By the time Friday rolls around, I’m a sleep-deprived mess. Between meetings, I rub my eyes at work and yawn, trying to stay focused.

"Still can't sleep?" Sherry leans over my cube and gives me a perky look that should be outlawed. “Or still haven’t gotten a replacement for that coffee pot?”