SCARY HOURS - JJK

CHAPTER ONE.

Sweat blankets your body as you twist and turn in your bed, your limbs tangling amongst the sheets in a hot, uncomfortable mess. There's another loud bang and you jolt, your eyes wide with slight fear as you hear another blood curdling scream rip through the air. The walls are so thin that you feel as though you are in the room with them. As if you can see what's going on and you can feel the raw emotion that coats their high notes.

But you can't. And, quite frankly, you don't care what's going on over there. All you care about is that it's dark, it's hot, you have school tomorrow, and your neighbors don't seem to be half as concerned about it as you are. How long has it been since they moved in? A couple days? You haven't even met them yet, but you aren't too sure you want to if this is what they are like in the wee hours of the morning. Another anguished scream pierces through the moment of quiet and you jerk in surprise before your face warps into an expression of annoyance, any trace of common sense blurred out by your extreme irritation and exhaustion.

Flipping over, you reach over your mounds of pillows and blankets to turn on your bedside lamp. Light instantly floods the room, leaking into every crack and crevice that it can reach, and you squint unattractively from the sudden harsh contrast. You fling a blanket off of your sweaty body and tiredly heave yourself up from bed. You have had enough; you are going to confront them and you don't care if you get taken hostage or shanked - you're going to get your sleep whether those neighbors of yours agree with you or not.

Stumbling around your room with bleary eyes, you pull your hair up to make yourself look at least decent before sliding your feet into some random pair of slippers and shuffling out into the living room. As you pass the hallway that leads to your mother's room, your blood boils with envy as her tranquil snores seep from the gap beneath her closed door. You wonder how she doesn't hear all the terrible racket through her slumber, but you know how heavy of a sleeper she is, so you don't bother to think oddly of it.

You make your way to the front door and open it as quietly as possible, trying your best to avoid the loud creaking it makes when you open it too wide. A freezing blast of air hits you as you step into the hallway, and you shudder at the drop in temperature. If you were hot in your room, then you were absolutely freezing now. It was refreshing, but the cold felt out of place for some reason.

You walk a few feet to the right and halt in front of the apartment room that houses the source of your sleep deprivation. The apartment number 197, written in a curly, cursive font, glints dangerously in the bright rays of fluorescent light that fills the hallway. It's the last door on the fourth floor, and it was empty since even before you moved here, three years ago. And you were doing just fine until whoever lives here just had to move in.

As you move a hand up to knock, you suddenly notice that the door looks different than the rest of the doors on the floor. It's painted a different shade of white and has chips and cracks all over it - no doubt caused by trying to fit a piece of furniture through that was too big - and the door handle looks like it's been through some things. Frankly, it looks rundown, most likely due to the fact that it hasn't been remodeled, unlike the rest of the apartment rooms in the complex.

You hesitate for a second before gently rapping your knuckles against the smooth surface a few times, your heart jumping up to your throat. You don't know why you are so nervous; after all, this is something that needs to be done. Perhaps it's because you are afraid of confrontation, or the fact that you have no idea what may lay beyond this door. But as you hear the sound of heavy footfall and another couple of bangs, you quickly realize that it's too late to turn around.

A few moments pass before you hear the lock being undone, and the door opens a crack, stopped by the chain lock that holds it in place. A boy that looks to be around your age peeks out from the small opening. For a split second, he looks tired, beatdown, and sickly - that is, until his face hardens into that of an angry mobster.

"What do you want?"

His voice comes out raspy and low, like he's been shouting at a concert for two hours. So he must be the one making all the noise. But that's not what strikes you so; it's his eyes. They're dark, almost black, and in them swim some sort of dead emotion that makes a cold chill run down your spine. Your words get caught in your throat and you stand there for a moment, just staring in silence.

A heavy sigh breaks your trance.

"Listen, if you're just here to bother me, then you can–" You cut him off mid-sentence. "No! I, uh.. Can you please keep it down? You're very loud and I can't sleep." Your confidence comes back when you remember your earlier vexation, being it was the sole reason you were standing there right now. The boy lets out another exasperated sigh, and he actually rolls his eyes as if you were the one being nuisance.

"I can't. Go away."

And the door slams shut in your face, so hard that gust of wind makes you tip backwards. If anything, you are in shock. The rudeness he exudes, the indifference he showed while waving you off as if you were some buzzing gnat. You quickly gather your courage and knock again with a little bit more force, but no one bothers to answer. You let out a huff and stomp off back to your own apartment, almost regretfully leaving the freezing hallway and entering your stuffy, hot room once again. You make sure the front door is locked before flinging the slippers off your feet and climbing back into bed.

You lay there for a long while, completely exhausted, but strangely not sleepy anymore. Your mind wanders to the boy and his angry expression coupled with the dark bags that pool beneath his eyes. You wonder if it's arguing parents making the racket, if he's constantly watching crappy horror movies with terrible sound effects, or if there's something more to it.

Eventually, though, you drift off to sleep, your body no longer hot and the air no longer stagnant. You don't stir for the remainder of the night, and your heart beats happily to the slow rhythm of your breathing.

And all is quiet next door.