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Stalker Neighbour Help
I have a problem with a neighbour. I’m sorry – this is lengthy, but it’s been going on for 18 months, so there’s a lot to say.
I previously lived on the street that I live on now for 6 years by myself (at number 8), before moving away and in with a partner. When that relationship failed, I wanted to return to the place where I had been happy before and moved back to the same street, but 6 doors down (at number 20). I’m in the top floor flat of a three storey converted townhouse. Mine is the only one bed in the property – there are two studios below me (one below the bedroom and one below the living room) and two studios below those. I had previously had a studio at number 8, so I was happy to have more space.
The trouble started about a week after moving in when the neighbour directly below my living room started going, for want of a better term, apesh1t. I still to this day have no idea what he was banging against what, but it was ridiculously loud, the whole house was shaking and it was very frightening. I was absolutely frozen to the spot and decided that I needed to stay clear of this neighbour at all costs.
I knew the guy was called Clive (not his real name for the purposes of this story, obviously), because I’d seen his post on the table in the hallway, so when I got home a couple of days after the apesh1t incident and found a note, I knew just who it was from. The note had been left on the hallway table, not folded or put in an envelope, but open so the whole house could read it. The tone of the note was awful. Some words were in capitals and underlined so heavily he’d nearly torn through the paper – it looked like someone having a breakdown. It covered a whole page and basically said that the whole house and the neighbouring house were against me, because I’d been slamming the doors. I suffer very badly from depression and had just been through a bad breakup and the note made me burst into tears and start shaking (I’m not usually that sensitive, but even without the depression, I would have been upset at the tone). I’d p1ssed off the crazy neighbour and I was concerned.
Now, I had been very firm with the outer door, I admit, because at number 8, the door didn’t close very well and with it being the security door for the house, I didn’t want to risk it not closing properly. I also have headphones in a lot, so I probably didn’t realise how loud the door slamming was, but I couldn’t understand why it had caused such vitriol. The door to my flat is impossible to slam because of the carpet, so I know that was rubbish. Had he just mentioned it to me in passing, I would have apologised; had he just left a note on the outer door saying: “Please don’t slam the door” I would have closed it more carefully, but the note was aimed directly at me and it was vile. Suddenly, the place that had been a welcome bolthole seemed more like a hostile dorm in someone else’s house where I had to be on my best behaviour.
So, I started to tiptoe around, even more determined to stay out of the way. I closed the door so quietly, I sometimes had to go back to make sure it was shut.
I’m a pretty good neighbour – I keep to myself and I’m not particularly noisy, but I am very friendly and it has caused issues with people in the past, so whenever I saw any of my neighbours, I smiled, said hello and asked how they were, but didn’t engage more than that. I didn’t complain when Clive’s foisty washing was repeatedly hung over my banister (there’s no reason to go up to the top floor unless you need access to my flat and I didn’t like that he was coming up there, whether I was in or not). At first, the washing would be there for a day or two, but then it started being left there longer and, at one point, a T-shirt was there so long, I took it downstairs, folded it and left it on the table. I got the distinct impression that he was doing it so that I would knock on his door, and I didn’t want to engage. I also didn’t complain when he left his stuff all over the communal corridors, even when I tripped over a pair of his shoes at the top of the stairs and just about managed to not crash down the entire flight.
Then Clive started appearing in his doorway when I was coming home or leaving the house (I have to walk past his door to get to the stairs that lead to my flat). Not every time, but enough to make me dread coming in or leaving. Often, he’d be half naked – just wearing shorts and he’s quite built. I felt vulnerable. I would get past him saying as little as possible, but he started saying things that worried me. He suddenly started talking to me about boxing one day and I couldn’t understand how he knew I was into boxing – it’s not something I talk about a lot with people I know well, so how this stranger knew, I don’t know. The only thing I could think was that he’d heard a podcast I was listening to, but he wouldn’t have been able to hear it unless he had some way of listening in to my flat – I’ve been to get post when podcasts have been on and I can’t hear a thing until I’m back in my flat. I also never hear the TV or music from any other flat. Another time, he started talking about working out and doing weights in a really familiar way – I didn’t know how he knew that I do weights either. Then one day, he loomed over me while I was coming home and started singing the McDonalds jingle in a weird, slow, creepy voice (I hate McDonalds and had been talking to my partner about it a couple of days before).
Then something bad happened. I got in from work one morning last February (2017) and he was at the top of the first flight of stairs, sort of swaying from side to side. And he kept saying: “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry” and my first thought was: “Oh God – what have you done?” He was absolutely beside himself. Then he said: “Have you seen your car?” and I said “No.” He proceeded to tell me a well-rehearsed story about two kids who he’d been talking to while he was washing his bike outside and that they’d obviously thought the car was his and they’d done something to it. I didn’t believe him at all, and still don’t. I went out to my car and read the message “Guna get u no 20” with a slash underneath keyed into my bonnet. He said he’d reported it to the police, so I rang them myself after I finally managed to get away from him (not saying much other than: “It’s fine,” because I still didn’t want to engage and I was really scared now) and the police were under the impression that he was my boyfriend. I explained that he wasn’t and they insisted that he was at least my flatmate. After several minutes of reiterating that we didn’t live together and that I lived alone, I finally got through to them and they seemed a bit worried, because he’d said he lived with me. They told me that Clive couldn’t give them a proper description of the ‘kids’ that had keyed my car either, so there wasn’t much I could do. I said that I thought Clive had done it, but they seemed dismissive and I didn’t want to go into why I thought it was him, so I let it go.
He came out several times to talk about the car after that. I snapped at him once because I was leaving the house and late for a train, so then he just seemed to wait until I was coming home from work, which meant that I didn’t know what I’d be coming home to every day. I barely engaged when he did this – I barely even looked at him. I was clearly not happy about speaking to him and couldn’t understand why he kept insisting on ambushing me.
A few weeks later, my Mum came for a visit and we were in the car (it’s her car and she v.kindly lends it to me a lot) when Clive came out of the house and bounded up to the car window where my Mum was. He started apologising to her. Then he said: “It was these kids – they came into where I work” and my blood ran cold. That was not at all what he’d said to me. He said they’d been outside the house – at no point had he said they’d been to his workplace. Also, if he keeps seeing these kids, why can’t he give the police a descripton? My Mum was slightly disturbed by the interaction and agreed that she thought he’d done it himself (previously, she just thought it was kids messing around).
A few weeks after that, I was coming into the house and, again, Clive was at the top of the first flight of stairs swaying from side to side. “They’re out there!” he hissed. “Those kids that keyed your car!” I knew full well there was nobody there – I had just come from ‘out there’. So to make a show of believing him, I started to go towards the door. “Don’t go out there!” He shouted. “You need to ring the police!” I managed to get past him and up to my flat and he half followed me. I think I said one word during this whole transaction, which was: “Right”. I made it into my flat and started shaking again. I opened the window at the front of the house and looked out – there was nobody in sight. Surprise surprise.
And then a few weeks after that, I was coming in one day and Clive was outside in just a pair of shorts and he said: “Can I wash your car?” and I snapped: “No, I’m fine thanks.” What I wanted to say was: “Stay the f#ck away from me and my car!” but I didn’t want to anger him.
Clive went quiet for a while, but then one day, I came in from work to a nasty note that told me I needed to stop jumping around because it was ruining his ceiling. I really didn’t know what to do. I was already being pretty quiet, but I was just genuinely scared to move around at all after that. I knew what was wrong with his ceiling – he hadn’t just gone apehs1t the once, so he must be hitting his ceiling with something hard, and he was trying to blame me when he realised the damage he was doing. I was then quite worried that I was going to be evicted for damage I hadn’t done, and wondered if not engaging with him had angered him. Was this his payback?
One day I went to my car and the wing mirror had been knocked off. To be honest, this could have been unrelated, because there was no obligatory note from Clive and he hadn’t said anything. By this point, I’d started parking further down the road so he didn’t know where it was, but it didn’t last long before he realised I was parking just a few of houses down and it wasn’t always possible to park there. But I’m mentioning this, because it was the second thing that happened to my car. There was a third, much scarier thing.
I was at work one day in the summer of 2017 when I received a phonecall from my landlord. And he was livid. Usually a calm, well-spoken man, he screamed at me. He was blaming me for Clive’s hot water not working. The boilers for the two first floor studios are outside the flats – one is outside mine and one is at the bottom of my stairs. I’ve never been sure which boiler was for which flat, but since mine was inside my door, I didn’t ever give them a second thought. Apparently, someone had turned Clive’s water off and the landlord had had to pay a plumber to come out, only to find that it could be fixed with a flip of a switch. I finally managed to calm my landlord down and told him about the issues I was having with Clive and he began to see that this wasn’t my doing. By the end of the phonecall, he was telling me he would talk to Clive, because I was a good tenant and he didn’t want to lose me. He mentioned the ceiling, but just to say that he knew Clive had been hitting his ceiling, so I think he’d been planning on shouting at me about that too before he realised that the woman he was talking to was scared to death of living in his property.
The next time I ran into Clive, I said a terse “Hi” and he put his head down and seemed to be acting scared of me. This was new, but I’d take it, if it kept him off my back. It didn’t last, but I’d decided it was time to move out and my new partner and I were planning on getting a house together in early 2018. Clive was chatty when I saw him, but I still kept my distance and things were quiet for a couple of months.
My partner and I found a house in November that we absolutely loved – we were sure we wouldn’t get it, because the landlord would have to wait for months before we could move in, but we did get it and were over the moon. I told my landlord that I’d be moving in January and he wished me well. And then the trouble started again. I hadn’t wanted Clive to know that I was moving, because I was worried that, if he knew, he would do something to me, knowing that he didn’t have much time. However, another neighbour had moved out not long before and the To Let sign had never been taken down, so I felt sure that he wouldn’t know I was going too. I was wrong. A week after speaking to my landlord (no viewings had taken place by this point), Clive ambushed me in the corridor as I was coming in from work. He said: “Are you moving out?” and I said: “Yes” And tried to get to my flat, but then there was a loaded pause and he said: “Have you found a house then?” I remember turning on the stairs and it felt like I’d stopped breathing. I don’t know what I said at this point – I was shaking, I was scared and I wanted to get inside and barricade the door. He knew. And the thing is, I knew that he would know, even when I convinced myself there was no way he could. He knows every move I make.
I was scared. I started sleeping with a steel bar in the bed with me and a text message ready typed out to send to the police emergency text services that said: “Police! [Address and postcode]. A man has broken into my house. I am armed so one of us is going to get hurt. Send help immediately!” Thankfully, I’ve not had to use it. Yet.
Then my car was vandalised a third time. It was the night after my work’s Christmas party. I’d had a great night, but then managed to smash my phone running for the train and ended up getting a taxi, so I wasn’t in the best of moods anyway. When I walked through the door, there was a note from Clive – it was very friendly in tone. Far too familiar for my liking. It addressed me as Em… a logical conclusion when you know my name is Emily, I guess, but I don’t think that’s why he did it – I think he did it because everyone calls me Em. How he knows everyone calls me Em, I don’t know. The note said he was very sorry about the car and that he’d seen a neighbour from number 22 peering in the window. When I got to the top of the stairs, there was a note from two other neighbours, one from one of the ground floor flats and one from number 18 who had patched up my car window, which had been smashed, and put all my CDs in a carrier bag outside my door (the only time I’ve been glad to come home to a note – at least someone was looking out for me). I went outside, I saw the mess of my Mum’s car…
My fuse is very long, but when I get to the end of it, I’m pretty much the incredible hulk and I had had enough. Just months and months of harassment and shelling out to have the car fixed. I went back inside and slammed the door as hard as I can… there’s a bit of a blank patch, partly because I’d been at a Christmas party all evening and partly because of the red mist of rage. I remember banging on Clive’s door (luckily he didn’t answer) and I remember screaming that he had to f#cking leave me alone now, because I was sick of this sh1t. Then I tried to slam the door to my flat, which didn’t really work on account of the aforementioned carpet, so then I jumped heavily up and down on my living room floor and screamed so loudly that the neighbours next door at number 18 heard me! I felt that he deserved a taste of his own medicine. If he wanted a reaction, he was going to get one, but it wouldn’t be me running to him for help, which is what I suspected he’d been playing at.
I realise this isn’t good, but I’d just had enough. I’d calmed down by the morning and actually felt quite bad. For a while now, I’ve suspected that Clive has some sort of mild learning disability and I always feel bad when I’ve flown off the handle anyway. I could feel the familiar depression creeping back around the edges – I felt embarrassed about my outburst and about waking the rest of the house up. I went to speak to both neighbours who had patched my car up and they were both lovely about the whole thing and reassured me that they didn’t think Clive was dangerous, which made me feel both better and worse for a bit. I left a note on the noticeboard at the house saying that I was sorry to all for the noise, but it had been a difficult time. And then the next time I saw the noticeboard, Clive had written on the back of my note and put: “I happen to get scared when people slam doors. I take your parcels in for you. I hope you got them all.” And I was angry again – 18 months of being terrified of him and he was turning it back on me!! Having been in three separate relationships where I’d been gaslighted, I knew this game well.
When I got in the car after that night, a few things struck me: the car seat had been moved, but there had been no attempt to hotwire it and there was no damage to the keyhole. A man had sat in the driver’s seat, right where I sit, and done… what? Nothing! The driver’s side door was locked, so whoever it was had crawled over the broken glass on the passenger seat to sit there. My satnav was gone, but I felt like it was just an afterthought – in an age when people have swanky satnavs built into their cars, an old, second hand satnav is hardly a collector’s item. Not worth breaking into a car for. I was frightened – to me this meant that Clive had something strong enough to break into a car with and he’d taken that with him when he went back inside. The neighbour at number 18 had said that Clive had told them he’d seen the neighbour on the other side (number 22) looking into my car – basically casting blame before the crime even happened. I even checked the bins, because I was sure the satnav wasn’t the reason for the damage. I’d been waiting for this from the moment Clive asked me if I was moving out.
I have never ever had issues with my car on that street. I lived there for 6 years. The only difference between then and now is that I’m in a different flat. My car has been vandalised two, maybe three, times in a year. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.
Weeks and weeks of broken sleep. I dreamt constantly that Clive was in my loft cavity. Every noise meant that I had to get up to check that there was nobody in the flat. In the end, I started leaning things against the doors, so I’d hear if someone opened one of them. That’s the position I’m in now. I’m moving shortly and I’m scared something really really bad will happen before then. The bizarre thing is, there’s this smell I get a whiff of in my flat sometimes, and it’s him I can smell! It’s not bad, just a sort of deoderanty, musty smell, but I know it’s him! I smell it when he opens his door to accost me in the hallway. Sometimes I wonder if he has a key and has been in while I’m not there.
The night before last, I heard Clive come in at about 11 and he did his banging/flat shaking routine (it’s not every night, but it’s often enough that I’m almost used to it). I’d been let out of work early, because it was so quiet, because of the time of year and I’m usually in bed by 10, but I’d stayed up later and was just sitting in silence mulling things over. Then the banging stopped and there was silence again. And a few minutes later, I heard a tinkling noise in the chimney, like something little had been dislodged. I share the chimney stack with Clive and there’s a grill / vent thing with a big hole behind it on the chimney itself. I pulled the grill off and listened, but I didn’t hear anything else. Somehow, this man knows my every move. Is he listening in on me? Has he hacked my WiFi? Since I don’t speak a lot while I’m in, I thought it was probably the latter, but that little noise has made me wonder. My partner comes over sometimes, so I speak then, obviously, and we chat about the house a lot.
And now the real kicker – the house we fell in love with and are moving into is on the next street along from my flat. We didn’t realise at the time – we thought it was two streets and an alleyway along. The house we’re moving to backs onto that alleyway and the back of the house backs onto the back of the house where my flat is… if I look out of the spare room in the new house, I’ll be looking into Clive’s living room. We’re all paid up and we love that house, so we have to live there. I’m hoping the presence of my partner and not being in the same building as Clive will diffuse any future situation. But what if it doesn’t?
I mentioned the issues I was having with Clive to the police when I spoke to them, for the third time, about my car, but they just said I had to keep a diary of everything that was happening, because so far, all they could see was that he was a v.odd man. I started researching stalker neighbours online, which is when I realised I had to write it all down from the beginning and see what other people thought of it. I’m still torn between being genuinely frightened to be in that flat (or to leave it in case something happens while I’m out) and feeling bad for shouting and banging so much that night. He seems to be staying out of my way now, but still doing the apesh1t dance down there.
Has this happened to anyone else? Has anyone else discovered that their neighbours really were stalking them? Does anyone have any advice?
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