I’ve always been a stickler for rules. Call me boring, but there’s something comforting about knowing where you stand. That’s why I loved living in our little apartment block on Maple Street.

We had one golden rule: after 8 p.m., you always carry your key. Simple, right? Well, it was until Hurricane Michelle blew into our lives.

The day Michelle moved in, I should’ve known trouble was brewing. I was collecting my mail when she strutted up the path, wild red hair flying, and enormous sunglasses perched on her nose despite the cloudy day.

“Hey, new neighbors!” she called out, voice loud enough to wake the dead. “I’m Michelle! Who’s gonna help me with these boxes?”

I exchanged glances with Matt from 2B. He shrugged, and we both headed out to lend a hand. As we lugged boxes up the stairs, Michelle chattered away.

“This place is so cute! It’s like, totally retro. I can’t wait to spice things up around here!” She winked at Matt, who nearly dropped a box labeled “PARTY SUPPLIES.”

“Yeah, well,” I puffed, struggling with what felt like a crate of bricks, “we like it quiet around here. Especially after 8.”

Michelle laughed, a sound like tinkling glass.

“Oh honey, the night’s just getting started at 8!” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You’ll see, I’ll breathe some life into this place.”

I should’ve taken that as the warning it was.

For the first week, things were okay. Sure, Michelle’s music was a bit loud, and yeah, she had a habit of clattering up and down the stairs at all hours. But it wasn’t until the second Friday night that the real trouble started.

It was just past midnight when the first thump-thump-thump echoed through my apartment. My dog, Biscuit, lifted his head with a whine. I tried to ignore it, burying my face in my pillow. But then came the buzzing. It was incessant, like an angry hornet.

Groaning, I stumbled to the intercom. “Hello?”

“Heeeeey!” Michelle’s voice, slightly slurred, crackled through the speaker. “It’s me! I forgot my key. Can you let me in?”

I sighed, pressing the button to unlock the main door. My apartment was on the ground level so I opened my door to remind her about the key rule.

“Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver!” Michelle gushed, her breath reeking of tequila. “I was gonna be stuck out there all night!”

“Michelle,” I started, trying to keep my voice level, “remember the rule about always carrying your key after 8?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Pffft, rules are made to be broken, right? Besides, you’re right here! It’s no problem for you to let me in.”

“Well, actually…”

But there was no point in saying anything more. Michelle had already clattered up the stairs and disappeared, leaving me standing in the foyer, fuming.

I wish I could say that was a one-time thing. But over the next few weeks, it became a nightly occurrence.

Sometimes she’d bang on windows, other times she’d ring every buzzer in the building until someone let her in.

It didn’t matter if it was 10 p.m. or 3 a.m. — Michelle seemed to operate in her own time zone.

One particularly frustrating night, I was jolted awake by a rhythmic tapping on my bedroom window. Groaning, I glanced at my alarm clock: 2:37 a.m.

“Adrienne! Adrieeeeenne! Wake up, sleepyhead!”

That was the last straw for Biscuit, who ran over to the window and started yapping. I stumbled out of bed. Pulling back the curtain, I was met with Michelle’s grinning face, illuminated by the streetlight.

“Michelle!” I hissed, sliding the window open. “What are you doing?”

She giggled, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves. “I forgot my key, Addy. Be a pal and buzz me in? I’ve been tapping at your window for ages already.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Michelle, this has got to stop. You can’t keep doing this. What if I hadn’t been home?”

She shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the whole situation. “Then I would’ve buzzed Matt. Or Tiffany. Someone’s always home, right?”

The whole building was at its wit’s end. One day, Tiffany from 3A cornered me in the laundry room, dark circles under her eyes.

“Adrienne, we’ve got to do something about Michelle. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks!”

I nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion myself. “I know, Tiff. I’ve tried talking to her, but she just laughs it off.”

Matt joined us, his usually neat hair a mess. “I called the landlord,” he said, voice low. “Guess what? Michelle’s his niece. He said, and I quote, ‘She’s just having a bit of fun. You all need to lighten up.'”

“Lighten up?” Tiffany hissed. “I’ll show him ‘lighten up’ when I fall asleep at work and get fired!”

That’s when Riley from 4C spoke up. I hadn’t even noticed her lurking by the dryers.

“You know,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, “if Michelle won’t listen to reason, maybe we need to speak her language.”

We all leaned in closer as Riley outlined her plan. It was petty, sure. Childish, even. But after weeks of sleepless nights and Michelle’s careless laughter ringing in our ears, it felt like sweet justice.

The next night, we put our plan into action.

Michelle stumbled home around 1 a.m., and as usual, she started banging on windows and buzzing apartments. Someone let her in, as usual, and I listened as she breezed upstairs.

We struck an hour later.

I went outside and kept buzzing her apartment for a full ten minutes. Eventually, her voice crackled over the speaker.

“Who is this, and what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Hey, Michelle! It’s me, Adrienne. I took Biscuit out and forgot my key. Be a pal and buzz me in?”

“Are you serious? It’s 1 a.m.!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, but I always do it for you, so what’s the problem?”

I heard her mutter something, but she let me in. I quickly texted Tiffany and rushed upstairs for the next part. I arrived at Michelle’s floor just as a series of sharp knocks echoed down the hall.

“Michelle? Michelle? Are you home?” Tiffany called out as she knocked on the door.

“Tiff? What are you doing?” Michelle groaned.

“Oh, I just wanted to check if somebody had let you in. Good night!”

I leaned against the wall, stifling my giggles. But we weren’t done. Over the next few days, we kept up our campaign. If Michelle forgot her key, we made sure she couldn’t sleep. It was petty, yes, but it felt so good.

By day five, Michelle was a wreck. Her hair was a tangled mess, her designer clothes rumpled, and dark circles ringed her bloodshot eyes. As she trudged up the stairs, I almost felt bad. Almost.

“Please,” she croaked, her voice hoarse from yelling, “can you guys stop this? I get it, okay? Just stop waking me up every night!”

Tiffany, who’d come out to watch the show, couldn’t resist a jab. “Oh, so you do understand how annoying it is. Funny, you didn’t seem to care when you were doing it to us.”

Michelle’s lower lip trembled, and for a moment, I thought she might cry. But then she squared her shoulders. “Fine. I’m sorry, alright? I’ll start bringing my key. Just… please let me sleep.”

We all exchanged glances. It wasn’t a grand apology, but it was something. Slowly, we nodded.

“Okay, Michelle,” I said, trying to keep the triumph out of my voice. “We’ll stop. But remember—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, fishing in her purse. “Always carry my key after 8. I got it.”

The next evening, I tensed as I heard Michelle’s distinctive clatter on the stairs. But to my surprise, there was no banging, no buzzing. Just the soft click of a key in a lock.

I couldn’t help but smile to myself. “Funny,” I murmured, settling back on my couch, “how peace always comes when everyone finally starts playing by the rules.”

Biscuit wagged his tail in agreement, and I scratched behind his ears. Our little apartment block was back to normal — or as normal as it could be with Hurricane Michelle living upstairs. But hey, at least now she had the key to fitting in.