Chapter 2
After about a minute or so, the sound of slippers shuffling across the floor echoed again, slowly fading away, and then came the dull thud of the fire door slamming shut.
I thought he finally went upstairs.
I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, cold sweat soaking through my pajamas.
But I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't even bring myself to go back to my bedroom.
I gripped my phone tightly, curled up in the corner of the living room sofa, fixing my gaze on the ceiling, unable to look away.
Ten minutes later, the work upstairs kicked off again.
This time, it wasn't the bone-chopping sound. Instead, it was a relentless, high-pitched buzzing.
It was the roar of a motor spinning at full throttle, like a heavy-duty blender crushing solid ice.
The whole ceiling in Room 304 was trembling.
The vibrations traveled down through the walls, like countless tiny ants burrowing into my eardrums.
I was imagining what Scott looked like then.
I wondered if he was standing in the kitchen, stuffing those chopped-up chunks into the machine one after another.
I wondered if that finger with the red nail polish would get caught in the blades, letting out that piercing screech from earlier.
Finally, someone in the group chat couldn't take it anymore.
At 3:45 AM, someone sent a voice message in the group chat.
The neighbor in Room 601 shouted, [Who is it? Renovating in the middle of the night? Seriously, are you out of your mind? Can't you let people sleep?]
The neighbor in Room 203 replied, [I think it's Room 404. The noise is ridiculous. It sounds just like a power drill.]
Scott replied instantly, as if his phone was always in his hand.
Scott: [Sorry for the noise. My dog is sick. The vet said he can only eat blended food. I'm making chicken mash for him. Please, just ten minutes.]
The complaints in the group chat eased a bit.
Another neighbor replied, [Dogs are a hassle. Keep it down.
[Do it during the day next time.]
As I stared at the messages on my screen, a cold shiver crawled up from my feet.
I'd been living in this neighborhood for three years, always bumping into neighbors out walking their dogs.
I could name every dog and their breed in this place.
But I had never seen Scott walking a dog. I hadn't even spotted any dog hair in his apartment.
He never had a dog.
He was lying.
I couldn't help but think what on earth Scott was really grinding up in his kitchen right now.
Sure enough, the buzzing overhead stopped after ten minutes.
Right after, there was a massive rush of water.
Swoosh, swoosh.
The water gushed down the old PVC pipes, echoing as it passed above my bathroom ceiling.
It wasn't the usual sound of a toilet flushing. It was more like someone was dumping bucket after bucket of water forcefully into the drain.
All night long, I kept hearing that relentless rush of water echoing through the pipes.
It wasn't until the first light crept in that the apartment upstairs finally fell silent.
The loud voices outside my window woke me up.
When I opened my eyes, it was already 8:30 in the morning.
I'd spent the whole night curled up on the couch, and my neck was so stiff and sore that I could barely move it.
Downstairs, the place was a total mess, with a bunch of old ladies yelling their heads off.
I grabbed my phone, and the building group chat was blowing up.
I tapped on the first one, and it was a disgusting photo.
The neighbor in Room 101 sent it, showing their kitchen sink.
The once spotless sink was filled with dark red, filthy water, a thick layer of grease floating on top, and some unrecognizable white chunks.
Giana Hardy in Room 101: [Damn! Who's dumping garbage down the drain? My kitchen's backed up with filthy water!
[That was crazy. The whole place reeks, and I just finished renovating!]
The property manager also posted a video from the scene: [Everyone, please stay calm. The drain specialist is here and is clearing out the main sewer outside.]
In the video, a few workers in blue uniforms gathered around the manhole right outside the building entrance.
As soon as they lifted the cover, a cloud of black fumes came pouring out.
I tapped on the video and cranked up the volume.
The worker grabbed a long iron hook, stirred it around in the manhole a few times, and then suddenly yanked it up.
"Whoa, what the heck is this?" one of the workers muttered.
A dark, slimy mass was hanging from the hook.
It was a tangled mess of long hair, soaking wet, looking just like some dead seaweed from the deep.
And tangled up in that mess of hair was a mass of red-and-white minced meat, with a few shards of bone that hadn't been completely crushed.
The crowd in the video let out retching sounds.
My stomach knotted up.
The length of that hair and the slight wave to it reminded me of Melody.
She had beautiful permed hair, always just twisted up and tucked behind her head.
The group chat exploded. [That's just nasty!]
[Someone needs to figure out who did this! That's seriously messed up!]
[What even is that meat? Who dumps so much down the drain?]
Just as everyone was getting worked up, threatening to call the cops and check the security cameras, Scott popped up in the group chat.