The Servitor

Part 1

I feel shaky and dizzy from exhaustion.

My current upstairs neighbours have redefined the meaning of noise. Some days are so bad, I feel paralysed, unable to function through the assault from above. It's worse than toothache, drilling into my brain.

Mandy's voice on the phone is soothing in my ear, though. I realise, like me, she's already in bed, ready to sleep. I feel a brief flutter of genuine gratitude in my chest for Mandy being in my life. Tiny tears form in my eyes, but they don't spill onto my cheeks.

What would I have done without Mandy these last few years?

It's a godsend she understands the trauma of having horrible, noisy neighbours who moved in above me because she had a similar experience renting her flat.

I can't bloody wait to get out of this place and have my own house, away from the noise and hassle of dealing with other people's crap. It's been too long. I counted the other day that it's been ten long years of renting and dealing with noise above my head because finding a top-floor flat in London has been almost impossible.

Then there's Tosca. I wanted her to have easy access to whatever small garden any of the flats I rented had. But the price of living in a ground-floor flat has been higher than either of us had bargained for. Not one flat had much of a garden to speak of, but communal green spaces which Tosca avoided like her life depended on it.

Nothing I've tried has worked on any of the neighbours over the years. Not talking to them or being extra nice, or even complaining to the agent and the landlord.

The insulation in this place is shocking and the smallest footfall comes through the ceiling loud and clear. I'm surprised the upstairs neighbours don't also hear the people above them and want to be a little more considerate. But oh, no. They seem hell-bent on making my life as miserable as they obviously are, judging by their frequent arguments, stomping, banging, throwing things, and dragging furniture around above my head. I even bought a sound booth, hoping to cut some of the noise, so I could do my work in relative peace. Perhaps everyone working from home in a London rental flat needs sound booths these days.

I'm aware of the phone in my hand as I'm drifting off to sleep and Mandy's gentle voice in my ear. I wonder if I'm already dreaming. Her voice drifts away, but I could swear she said something about using magick to ward off the noisy neighbours, something about a Servitor - whatever that is. But I'm too sleepy to ask. I'll check in with her about it tomorrow when, hopefully, I'll have more energy, providing the people upstairs don't wake me up again at three o'clock in the morning, as they often do. Don't they ever sleep? How they function is beyond me. I'm shattered - physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.

But the worst of it is the awful trauma my poor cat suffers. Tosca doesn't deserve this. No animal does. No one does.

***

The shock of waking up to sudden stomping and banging sounds above me results in an immediate headache. I sit up against my pillows and yawn. Glancing at the clock, I see it's seven o'clock, too early for me to get up. I only finished working at two in the morning and being woken this early has me feeling muffled and disorientated.