It was an older place, probably built in the late 1920's. Some people would turn their nose up at the high ceilings, radiator heat and hardwood floors that had seen better days. But for me, it was perfect, an anecdote for the ordinary, cookie-cutter places springing up all around the suburbs of the city. I wanted a place with character and, well, I got it.

Located on the ground floor, with the huge bay windows that looked out on the street and having my living room right next to the entrance, I couldn't help but notice the comings and goings of the folks in the place. I might be watching tv or doing dishes and glance out one of the windows to see one of my neighbors pass or hear them as they stumbled in at all hours through the security door, fumbling for their key to get their mail out of one of the boxes right outside my door.

You get to know people that way. The old lady down the hall who would get a little tipsy and would stumble a bit coming in, even in the middle of the afternoon. If you happened to be passing by in the hallway, you might even notice the interior of her apartment, filled with stacks of newspapers and magazines probably dating back many years before I was born.

Or the maintenance man who lived across the hall who would have friends over to play poker on Friday nights; one would notice the smell of cigars wafting through the hallway and his wife going out for a movie to give the man of the house some space.

That's how I first noticed Richard - Richard Martin was his name, at least that's what it said on his mailbox. He lived in the apartment above me. I always knew when Richard came home. If I happened to be in the living room, I could hear him enter through the front door, walk up the steps and go in the door to his apartment, just above mine, the slight creek of his feet on the floor as he made his way through his place.

At first, I saw him passing by outside my window, then, one day, I happened to notice him chatting with one of the neighbors on the sidewalk. An older man, probably in his sixties, he had grey hair and a mustache, a nice athletic build. But there was something unusual about him that caught my eye. Beneath the pleasantries in chatting with my neighbor, he had a certain guarded body language - he stood erect and alert, his arms crossed over his chest, almost as if to say "stay away".

I didn't think much of it. He seemed like an ordinary enough fellow. He was quiet and didn't seem to cause any problems. He seemed to live alone and be on a regular schedule, coming home around six each evening.

I happened to mention him to the old lady one day. She got a strange look in her eyes and lowered her voice almost to a whisper.

"He used to be in prison," she said. "He was a rowdy biker - got into some kind of fracas with some man at a bar."

I expressed my surprise; he seemed harmless and quiet.

"He's changed so much since then. Works at a truckstop. Keeps to himself," she said, a serious expression coming over her face.

"He's worked hard to change."

Things seemed to be pretty quiet for the first few months I lived in the place. I got used to the natural rhythm of my neighbors.

Most of all, I got used to the quiet in the middle of the night. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get to sleep at a normal time. It was as if I only needed three or four hours of sleep to go about my day. It didn't seem right, but was something I had gotten used to since college.

Now, in a new place with no friends and no place to go, I was stuck in the apartment, wide awake with nothing to do at 3:00 in the morning.

It was maddening.

I tried everything to occupy my time. Television. Reading. Browsing the Internet. Porn.

The quiet of my neighbors at night was my curse. I was bored out of my wits.

That is, I was bored until the new neighbor moved in on the third floor....

The first thing I noticed about the new neighbor that I'll call "Billy" here, since I can't recall his real name, was that he was unusual. He was a definate party animal, coming in at all hours of the night.

I saw him a couple of times during the light of day outside my window. Nice muscular build, but nothing special, a handlebar mustache and furry body. He always seemed to be barefoot and shirtless, a redneck through and through.

I ran into him one day outside of the apartment and said "hello" in a non-commital sort of anonymous neighbor way. His body language instantly changed - hovered in a relaxed pose checking his mail, his back straightened and he placed his arms in front of his chest in a defensive pose, the same kind of passive-aggressive body language I had seen from Richard.

He grunted some minimal response and I didn't really pay close attention to him. He seemed to be in his own little world that he didn't want anyone else intruding on.

Billy became more annoying, however. He would stumble in drunk, ranting and raving, yelling "fuck this" and "fuck that", slamming his door at all hours. I think all the neighbors were getting annoyed.

That's when I first noticed the strange sounds coming from Richard's apartment.

I was sitting in the living room reading at 2:00 am and heard Richard pacing. I wouldn't have noticed it, but his steps seemed so hard and heavy. I heard strange grunting and growling coming from upstairs. It didn't sound like Richard's voice. He seemed to live alone and I knew of no one else that lived there - what could the strange sounds mean?

Night after night, it was the same routine - Billy would come in late from a night of drinking, then the strange sounds would start upstairs in Richard's apartment.

After a week of these strange happenings, I finally got to see the source of the noise.

It was July 4th weekend. Most everyone in the apartment building was gone, away on holiday. The building was already unusually quiet, even more than usual at 4:00 am.

I put down my book and turned out the lights, finally reaching a state of tiredness where I thought I could finally sleep. I started walking through the living room, headed for bed when it happened.

There was pounding on the glass door, a flurry of struggling with the thing. A torrent of "fuck this" and "fuck that".

I stopped in my tracks. Billy was home from a particularly bad night of drinking.

Then I heard the glass shatter - somehow, Billy had shattered the glass of the door, either with his fists, a rock, or perhaps stumbling into it with his body.

Billy continued his barrage of epiteths, now inside the lobby, sloppily stumbling around. But my attention was drawn elsewhere.

I heard the most inhuman growl from Richard's apartment, feet were almost pounding on the floor as he paced, the boards creaking loudly and thumping with each step.

I heard Richard's door fling open, slamming against the wall and heavy feet descending the stairs.

I heard a low gutteral growl in the hallway.

"Fuck," Billy replied, slurring his speech. "You think you're in charge here, mother-fucker. You're just a pussy. You want to get fucked."

I stood there, still and silent. The lights from the streetlamps cast an eerie glow in my living room through the blinds.

Billy was trouble. The last thing I wanted to be was a witness in a murder trial or having to wipe up a pool of blood oozing under my door.

It sounded as though Billy stumbled, rushing - forwards or backwards I didn't know. I heard fists pounding and Billy yelling.

Then I heard the inhuman growl again and what sounded like a heavy, single blow to a body, a rustle as if someone were dragged or had slid across the floor.

I was frightened by what I heard, but so turned on. I felt my cock growing hard in my shorts. I had to see what was happening. I couldn't resist. My heart pounding, I crept as quietly as I could on the hardwood floor towards the door of my apartment. I held my breath as I looked through the security peephole mounted in the door.

My eyes adjusted to the light pouring through the tiny peephole, the odd wide angle distorting my view. There was Billy, lying on his back across the hall. His face was bloodied and broken, a stream of blood oozing from the back of his head on the concrete wall down to the floor. His face was twisted, contorted, his skull fractured. But he seemed to still be breathing.

I heard the low inhuman growl again and heavy footsteps on the concrete hallway floor just outside my door. Stepping into my view was something so surprising, so amazing that I must have audibly gasped.

An incredibly huge figure stepped into view, walking towards Billy. Dressed only in tight boxer shorts, it was the most fantasticly muscled being I had ever seen. His back, butt and abs were perfectly formed, but thickly veined and powerful. He bent over, placing one hand around Billy's neck, his forearm and biceps seeming to explode with power.

He must have heard me or sensed me.

He turned - his eyes glared at me.

I became frightened, my heart raced. I looked away from the peephole.

Did he know I was watching?

I couldn't resist. I had to know what was happening. I carefully moved towards the peephole again, my hard cock brushing up against the door as I leaned forward.

There, in the center of the hallway, was this inhuman figure, standing tall in profile, facing towards the back of the building. In his left hand he held Billy's neck, the victim's feet dangling off the floor, veins and straited muscle pumping on his bicep and forearm. He just stood there a moment, looking at his handiwork. Like a cannon, he landed a fist in Billy's abs. I thought I heard a bone crack and saw a torrent of blood gush from Billy's mouth.

The figure looked a good six and a half or seven feet tall, based on how high he was holding Billy off the ground. The boxer shorts were tight against his body, revealing the incrdible thickness of his thighs. An engorged, veined, thick cock poked through his shorts - his cock wasn't even aroused, but the head looked almost as large as my fist.

Suddenly the figure turned toward me. He flexed his right forearm and bicep; looking straight at me, he licked his victim's blood from his massive fist and forearm, almost as if he were worshipping his muscles.

He turned and still carrying Billy with his victim's neck in his left hand, started walking towards the back of the building, his heavy steps vibrating the concrete floor of the hallway.

I was surprised at myself - muscle or violence had never turned me on before, but I had a raging hardon and my shorts were wet with precum.

Had he heard me?

He knew I had seen him. Would he come after me next?

I stood in the darkness for moment and realized that the being would probably come out of the rear of the building. I dashed for the hallway that connected my living room with the bathroom and bedroom. From there, I knew I could see the parking lot behind our "t" shaped building. Would he be there?

I carefully pulled up one of the blinds and looked into the darkness. The street lamps only cast a dim glow on the parking lot. I scanned the parking.

There - there he was, towards the rear of the parking lot hear a grove of trees, still carrying Billy's body by the neck. He approached a dark colored older sedan. Still walking erect, his massive muscles bouncing with each step, he walked towards the rear of the car.

He placed the fingers of his right hand underneath the the edge of the trunk lid.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing - he ripped the trunk open with his hand, the trunk lid, bent in the middle, bounced as it lifted up. He threw Billy's body in the trunk, pausing only to make sure it was fully inside. Then, this man, this inhuman thing, slammed the trunklid shut with his right hand and slammed his fist into the center of it to make sure it was shut.

I saw him get into the car on the driver's side - it looked as though he were ripping the door handle off the car. He crammed his huge, muscled frame into the driver's seat. I saw a flash of light and the car started. With a rush of power to the engine, he drove it out of the parking lot. •