I have a weird neighbour. I've lived next to her for 23 years and I've never seen her.

I thought it was stupid to post here as I’m not exactly going to sleep tonight. It’s 3:35 AM and I can’t sleep anyway.<br><br>I live alone in a two bedroom apartment on the second floor of a tower block. It feels like most people moved out in the 80s. The place is riddled with cricks and creeks but I don’t want to sound like a fucking complaining millennial. <br><br>Across the hall lives Mrs Hemmings. She moved in when her husband died, I was five years old and I remember as a kid being unable to comprehend why my dad put a bunch of flowers on her doorstep that were addressed to someone else, she’d leave them there for days and nights. <br><br>When she’d pass me in the corridor, she’d force me to hug her and wouldn’t let go for as long as possible, she was always in her most elegant clothes and reeked of alcohol. <br><br>I hate to say it but I was afraid of her growing up. My father dragged me to her door about twice a year with a bunch of dead flowers, balanced on a shoebox so they wouldn’t crease and she’d burst into tears and tell me I was a wonderful young man. She’s not so bad but it’s always been weird.<br><br>I’m 28 years old now and she’s honestly not so bad. The whole ‘not leaving the house’ thing is probably for the better, trust me. She’s almost as wide as she is tall and she hasn’t lost her affinity for the booze. <br><br>I’ve been neighbours with her since I was five and I’ve never once seen her leave the apartment. She gets deliveries of the essentials, though most of the food is frozen and most of the drinks are alcoholic. <br><br>It’s been years since I’ve felt afraid of her. I’m not afraid of her now. I have no reason to be. All I know is that I really, really miss my dad and I know he’s dead. <br><br>I’ve never stopped hearing her.<br><br>Last night I heard her calling out for my father for the first time in over a decade. She’s never called his name before, it’s always been “is anyone there?” or “Hello?”.<br><br>Last night she called out: “Nicholas, is that you?”<br><br>Nicholas is my father’s name.<br><br>This made me feel like I was five years old again. She called, at irregular intervals, for hours. She called until I was so tired I went to sleep.<br><br>I woke up balanced across my skinned up knees, shouting at the top of my voice. It was 3:30 AM. <br><br>Then the knocking started. <br><br>At first it was a tap, tap, tap. By the time I’d rubbed the sleep from my eyes it was a full, loud thud, thud, thud. There was a voice alongside it, calling out “Nicholas? Are you there?”.<br><br>My legs were like lead, my heart was pounding and I was terrified. I called out “he’s not here!”<br><br>Mrs Hemmings cried out in a terrible voice and the knocking stopped. <br><br>I can hear her moving now, the pipes creaking so intensely I don’t know how she hasn’t burst any. <br><br>I see her silhouette standing in the doorway, will she knock? <br><br>I can hear her breathing.<br><br>I’m going to call the police.