MargenEvery night, at three on the dot, the neighbour upstairs dragged a chair across the floor. A long, dry screech, always identical, as if he were hauling something heavy to the middle of the room.
For months I put up with it, pillows over my head. One night, fed up, I went up in my pyjamas and banged on the door on the sixth floor.
Nobody opened.
The next morning I asked the caretaker about the man in 6B.
"6B?" She took off her glasses. "That flat has been shut for ten years. Ever since poor Mr Ferreira hanged himself. From a beam. He had to climb onto a chair."