Hearing The Voices Again

You might think that sharing a student house between six people would be fun. And you know, it is. But — it’s also terrifying. Especially when six swiftly becomes seven, and you want to kill two of them but you can’t because you don’t know what they look like.

Or if they’re even real.

This is the story of the voices from the second floor,
 and the only time they’ve ever very nearly been caught.

For the sake of keeping their identity’s anonymous, I’m going to simply refer to the housemates as Jane and Jane’s Creepy Boyfriend. None of the rest of us in the house know if Jane’s creepy boyfriend even has an actual name, so therefore Jane’s Creepy Boyfriend will remain his title.

Jane and Jane’s Creepy Boyfriend live on the second floor, in the smallest room of the house. I don’t know how they both fit in there.
 It’s probably smaller than Harry Potter’s Cupboard Under the Stairs.

 And nobody’s ever seen them leave this ridiculously sized room.
 However, in the early hours of the night, when the world is at it’s darkest, listen closely… and you just might hear them.

Or — put on ear muffs and try to sleep — and you’ll still hear them.

Start up the hoover, hairdryer, and lawnmower all at once
 and you’ll still fucking hear them.

Having wild sex.
 Taking a shower together.
 Taking a shower separately but having an argument in the bathroom.
 Ordering Supermac’s to the front door even though there’s a Supermac’s literally five minutes down the road, after they’ve just torn each other’s heads off in the bathroom.
 Having slightly less wild, slightly more disturbing sex,
 where they might actually just be occasionally jumping up and down on the single bed over the course of two and a half hours to work off all those Mighty Macs.


It’s certainly not during the day.
 Jane can often be heard running at lightning speed up and down the stairs on her way to and from college. Literally running. They both do it, whenever they come and go. I believe this is how they never get caught by any of us in the house. When they leave together it sounds like a galloping horse has been pushed from the top step. This is usually followed by a giggle and the BANG of the front door being swung closed.
 Everything they do is just so unnaturally loud. We could be being robbed by scary gangstaz and none of us would notice, just assuming it’s Jane and JCB.

Also no, you can’t have our address. Stay away from my house, this is not an invitation. Although we do possess a large collection of shiny expensive things,
 in case you were wondering, gangsta.

Anyway, last week, I almost struck gold.
 I FINALLY, after nearly 7 months of sharing a house, caught one of them.
 I think.
 An event I’ll never forget. No matter how much I want to.

So there I am, sitting in my room, trying to be a sensible adult, thinking about popping across the road to buy some fags. I’ve been trying to cut down on smoking, as I plan on being a writing prodigy forever and never dying.
 Anyhow, when I get to the till, the woman gives me one rapid look from toe to head, stops at my frazzled hair (it was lashing rain outside), and demands to see ID.

I’m obviously outraged.

I’ve come all the way across the road, mid-storm, stressed-out, 3 hours into applying for every job ever online

– yes, even to be one of those people that drive the machine street cleaner thingys in the early hours of the morning round the city –

just to be told by this female Judas that I actually look like the twelve year old boy I so often (JOKINGLY!!!) refer to myself as. Well, there goes my chances of getting hired in SuperValu.
 I leave the shop in a huff, to collect my age card and passport and birth cert from the house, which I will fire at her face when I return.

As I cross the road, something else suddenly seems more interesting than wrestling a cashier.

About 20 feet in front of me, I can see the silhouette of a man turning into our pathway and putting a key in the door. I’m close enough to recognise it’s not somebody I’m familiar with, but too far away to properly see them.
 I reach the gate, and he quickly looks around, as if to check if anybody has spotted him. Locking eyes, I give a slight wave and smile, signalling him to hold open the door.


he just…

slams it.

In my face.


As I let myself in with my own keys, I can hear the pounding footsteps racing up the last couple of stairs, followed by the thump of a bedroom door being shut.
 Is this

 What was

 Did I just

Jane’s Creepy Boyfriend? I hope so. I also don’t hope so.

Why did he pretend he didn’t see me?

Did I see him?

Jane and JCB, if you ever find this blog and realise it’s you I’m talking about,
 I only ask one thing:
 please reveal yourselves.

I know you let trap music echo through the walls daily, and use the microwave at 3am every night to ensure that nobody attempts to get a decent sleep, but honestly, none of this really bothers any of us.

We’re just…. Worried. Confused. Scared.

And of course, that whole ‘want to murder you’ thing at the start of this was a joke.

Hahahaha, funny joke.

*Please don’t make me axe the door down just to prove the voices are real.
 I’m not sure my counselor would understand that one.*

P.S. — Jane, this one goes out to you: OooOOooOOohhh Mys-ter-i-ous giiiirlll

Originally published at studentexposed.wordpress.com on March 3, 2016.

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