The Circus Next Door and My Rebuilding Year

I moved into a townhouse at the end of a long row of units while trying to rebuild my life after a difficult breakup. The place was nearly empty, and the surrounding neighborhood was noisy and unstable. Fights and parties were common, but the residents kept to themselves.

My immediate neighbors were a strange household. A short woman with enormous, bright hair spent much of her time shrieking. Her tall, extremely thin partner rarely spoke and often stood behind his front door staring toward the trees. A trucker who visited them regularly completed what felt like a bizarre little circus. Their arguments were loud enough to shake the shared walls, and one fight knocked the only picture from my wall.

The woman once assaulted a pizza delivery driver who had knocked at her door by mistake. The delivery ended with food thrown against my window, police lights outside, and a cracked pane that took a long time to replace. Around the same period, several homes in the row began reporting burglaries. Police asked whether I had noticed anything unusual, but I had no evidence and blamed the disturbances on my neighbors without connecting them to the thefts.

The property owners later began repairing insulation and updating the heating system through the attic spaces. I assumed maintenance workers had access to my unit while I was away, so I paid little attention to the work.

One evening, I returned home and felt that something was wrong. The doors and windows were locked, but the house smelled of tobacco, sweat, and stale air. I searched every room and found that my electronics and valuables were still there. Then I noticed that beer and several slices of bread were missing. I assumed workers had helped themselves to food and drinks.

The next morning, I discovered that all of my medications were gone, including my antidepressant and emergency anxiety medication. I became frightened and called the police. I learned that my home was one of many units recently entered without signs of forced entry. The house no longer felt like a home. It felt as if someone had been inside my life without permission.

Soon afterward, I returned with my girlfriend to collect belongings. A large party was taking place at the neighboring unit. The tall man stood in the doorway wearing only underwear and an oversized shirt. He looked at my girlfriend and made a crude comment about her. When I moved between them, he panicked, ran inside, and slammed the door. The party became silent.

Outside my own front door, the visiting trucker confronted me. He accused me of attacking the tall man. I told him nothing had happened, but a crowd gathered and began demanding that I come outside. The trucker grabbed the screen door and threatened to enter. I refused and insulted him. He punched through the screen, struck me, and knocked me backward into my girlfriend.

Police arrived because of the noise and parking chaos. I had facial injuries, my girlfriend was hurt, and several people from the party were arrested for drunkenness, disorderly conduct, or outstanding warrants. The trucker went to jail. The rest of the group told police a completely false story in which I had attacked their friend.

The following morning, the neighbors cleaned up the party. Among the empty bottles, I recognized labels from the beer missing from my refrigerator. It was possible that someone else had brought the same beer, but the coincidence forced me to think about the attic.

I searched my upstairs office, where the strange smell had been strongest. In a closet, I found drywall dust and paint chips concentrated near the wall. Looking up, I discovered a rough square hole cut into the ceiling. The property workers had not created a proper access panel, and the opening was large enough for an extremely thin person to climb through. There were scuff marks inside the closet.

I called the police again. They found that the attic spaces ran above the entire row of homes because the firewalls had been altered to make maintenance easier. The openings violated building codes and allowed someone to climb from one unit to another without being seen. Every townhouse had a similar weak point.

The roof also contained old cable openings that had been patched with removable plugs. From the attic, someone could look into several bedrooms. Police found a small ladder with a rope tied to it hidden above the neighboring unit.

The neighbors were arrested for drugs and other violations, but the person who had apparently been entering the homes was someone I had never seen before. He was rail thin, with a young body and a face that looked much older. His skin was pale and covered with scars and bruises. He wore dirty shorts, recoiled from the daylight, and had to be dragged outside without shoes.

I never learned who he was or how long he had been living in the townhouse, the attic, or the spaces between the walls. I only know that stolen belongings were found near the people who lived beside me, and that someone had a route into my home without opening a door.

Since then, I have never felt completely safe inside a house. I check closets, ceilings, vents, and narrow spaces that most people would ignore. Sometimes I wake convinced that I have seen that gaunt face watching from a window or from the darkness above the ceiling. I do not know whether the stranger was arrested, identified, or released. I only know that the walls around me may not have been walls at all.