(True Story) My Neighbour Was Being Slaughtered and I Did Nothing

I still remember the sound.

It didn’t sound human.

You know how when you’re cutting wood, there’s that rhythm? A thud, a pause, another thud, each one heavier than the last? That’s what it sounded like… coming from the apartment above mine. Except…it wasn’t wood.

That night, June 8th, I got home from work around 9:30. I peeped up the stairwell and the first thing I noticed was their front door—cracked open. Weird, right? You don’t leave your door cracked at night, not in Alton. I brushed it off, went inside, but then the noises started.

At first it was muffled yelling, like someone arguing but trying not to wake the neighbors. Then came the screams. Short, sharp, like someone biting down on their own fist to keep from letting it out. And then… then the thuds.

Five. Maybe six. Each one shook the walls, rattled the glass in my picture frames. My stomach turned because deep down, I knew what I was hearing. I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew.

By 9:45, it all stopped. No screams. No movement. Just silence. I remember staring at my phone, my thumb hovering over 911, but I didn’t press it. I told myself it was just another fight, that it would blow over like it always did. I even texted the landlord instead of the cops. Worst mistake of my life.

A few hours later, I couldn’t sleep. I was at the window when I saw him. Rita’s boyfriend, DeMark. He came out of their apartment just before midnight. He was carrying this big white laundry basket, holding it tight to his chest like it was heavy. Too heavy for just clothes.

He walked right past her car, down the street, and vanished behind the smoke shop. I thought I saw something drip from the corner of the basket, dark against the pavement. But I told myself it was just my imagination.

The next morning, I woke up to police cars everywhere. I saw Rita’s mom on the steps, shaking so hard I thought she’d collapse. Then I heard her say it—her voice cracking like glass breaking.

“My daughter… my daughter’s head is gone.”

That’s when it hit me. That sound. Those steady, chopping thuds. I wasn’t imagining it. I’d heard everything. Every single strike. And I did nothing.

The cops found her body upstairs, her head missing. Later, they found out what was inside that basket he carried into the night.

Rita was eight months pregnant. She was supposed to be a mother in a few weeks. Instead, her baby died with her, because I didn’t make that call when I should have.

I live with that guilt every day. And I’m telling you this now—because it could happen to you.

You might hear something through your walls one night. A fight. A scream. A thud. And you’ll tell yourself, "It’s nothing; it’s not my business."

But I promise you this: if you ignore it, you’ll never forget it.

Because sometimes, those aren’t just noises.

Sometimes, it’s the sound of someone’s last breath.