Chapter 1: The Gates of Hell

Chapter 1: The Gates of Hell

The key in the lock felt heavier than it should. Liam turned it, the click echoing in the unnervingly silent hallway of the apartment building. He pushed the door open and stepped into the small sanctuary of Apartment 4A, shrugging off the day like a soiled coat. The air inside was still and cool, a stark contrast to the lingering tension of his workday.

Outside, the streets of Ghent were ghost towns, monuments to a world holding its breath. The year was 2020, and the COVID-19 pandemic had imposed a fragile, city-wide quiet, punctuated only by the mournful wail of distant sirens. For Liam, that quiet was the only payment he received for the draining hours spent on the front lines. As a social worker for adults with severe mental disabilities, his days were a tightrope walk of managing anxieties, de-escalating crises, and navigating a system strained to its breaking point, all from behind the stifling barrier of a face mask.

His shoulders ached with a familiar, bone-deep weariness. All he wanted was a microwaved meal, an hour of mindless television, and then the blessed oblivion of eight hours of sleep. It was a simple, desperate desire.

A loud thud from the adjacent apartment, 4B, startled him. It was followed by the scraping sound of furniture being dragged across a wooden floor. New neighbors, he remembered. He’d seen a moving van outside that morning. He gave a weary sigh. A bit of noise was to be expected. He could live with that. He was a patient man; his job demanded it.

An hour later, as he sat on his worn sofa nursing a beer, the first notes of music seeped through the wall. It wasn't just music. It was a bassline, a low, predatory throb that vibrated through the concrete and into his teeth. He frowned, checking his watch. 9:30 PM. A little late for a weekday, especially during a national lockdown, but maybe it was just a housewarming. It would die down.

It did not die down.

By 11 PM, the single bassline had been joined by a cacophony of shrieks, laughter, and the distinct clinking of bottles. It wasn't a housewarming; it was a full-blown party. Liam’s apartment, his only refuge from the chaos of the world, was no longer a sanctuary. The walls were vibrating. The dull, repetitive thump of the electronic music was a physical assault, a relentless punch to his nervous system.

He tried to ignore it. He put in earplugs, but they only muffled the high-pitched laughter, leaving the bass to throb directly in his skull. He turned on his own television, cranking the volume, but the party next door simply consumed the sound. It was an invasive presence, a violation.

At midnight, something inside him snapped. The patient, empathetic social worker was being eroded by a primal need for peace. He was not asking for a library; he was begging for a cease-fire.

He walked to his front door, his heart hammering with a mixture of anger and anxiety. He hated confrontation. His entire professional life was about finding common ground, about de-escalation. He took a deep breath, composing a polite, reasonable request in his mind. “Excuse me, I have to be up early for work, would you mind keeping it down?” Simple. Non-aggressive.

He stepped into the hallway and the noise hit him like a physical wave. It was deafening. He knocked on the door of 4B. Once. Twice. On the third knock, pounding now to be heard over the music, the door swung open.

A wall of heat, sweat, and cheap alcohol washed over him. The apartment was packed. Dozens of young, unmasked faces stared back at him from the crowded living room, a sea of defiance against every rule that governed the outside world. In the doorway stood a young woman, maybe twenty-one, with impeccably styled blonde hair and a dismissive smirk playing on her lips. She held a red plastic cup and looked him up and down as if he were an insect that had crawled out from under a rock. This must be Jessica.

“Can I help you?” she shouted over the music, her tone dripping with saccharine condescension.

“Hi,” Liam began, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m Liam, from next door. I have to be up for work at five AM. Would it be possible for you to… turn the music down a bit?”

The girl’s eyes widened in a display of theatrical shock. “Oh, my God! We are so, so sorry!” she yelled, turning back to someone inside. “Chloe, the neighbor can hear us!” She turned back to Liam, her smile never reaching her cold, assessing eyes. “Total brain fart. We just moved in, you know? Still figuring out the acoustics. We’ll turn it down right away. Super sorry about that.”

Liam felt a flicker of relief. Maybe it was just a simple misunderstanding. “Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

“No problem at all! Have a good night!” She gave him a dazzling, meaningless smile and closed the door.

He walked back to his apartment, the adrenaline slowly seeping away. He listened. The music dipped slightly. Not off, not even quiet, but lower. It was a start. He could work with that. He went to his bedroom, lay down, and closed his weary eyes, praying for the silence to hold.

For ten blissful minutes, it did. He was on the very edge of sleep, that sweet, gentle slope into unconsciousness he craved so badly.

Then, the bass kicked back in.

It wasn't just back to its previous volume. It was louder. A deep, chest-rattling BOOM... BOOM... BOOM that felt like it was originating from inside his own ribcage. The sound was accompanied by a fresh wave of whoops and cheers from the party next door.

Liam’s eyes snapped open in the darkness. He stared at the ceiling, his body rigid. The relief he’d felt moments ago curdled into a cold, hard knot of fury in his stomach.

It hadn’t been a misunderstanding. It had been a dismissal. Her apology, her smile—it was all a performance designed to get rid of him. They hadn't turned it down out of respect; they had lowered it for a moment, a token gesture, before cranking it back up as an act of defiance. They were laughing at him.

He lay there for hours, a prisoner in his own home, as the party raged on. Sleep was a distant, mocking fantasy. He heard the front door of 4B opening and closing all night, more guests arriving, their loud greetings echoing in the hallway. He heard a couple having a screaming argument on their balcony at 3 AM. He heard the sickening sound of someone vomiting over the railing.

When the sun finally began to filter through his blinds around 6 AM, the music finally faded, replaced by the scattered sounds of the last few partygoers stumbling out into the dawn. Liam hadn’t slept a single minute. He got up, his body feeling like a brittle cage of glass, and prepared for another grueling day of work, his head pounding in time with the ghost of a bassline.

That evening, as he returned home, a sense of profound dread washed over him. His home was no longer a safe harbor. It was the front line of a new, unwanted battle. As if on cue, as he was heating his pathetic dinner, the first thumps of music started again from next door. Earlier this time. Bolder.

Liam stood in the middle of his living room, the fork falling from his hand and clattering onto the plate. He closed his eyes. The exhaustion from the night before, compounded by a day of intense work and the fresh sonic assault, was overwhelming. His polite plea had been met with contempt. His hope for peace was a naive dream.

He looked at the vibrating wall that separated his sanity from their chaos. This wasn't about a party anymore. This wasn't a simple dispute between neighbors.

This was a siege. And a war for his sanity had just begun.