We kept the flat priced low—for good reason. For years, tenants never lasted more than eight weeks, driven out not by the plumbing or the view, but by the woman next door. At 4 a.m., like clockwork, Mrs. Dragu would begin her ritual: the scrape of her cane down the corridor, the slam of cabinet doors, the stomp of feet like a private parade. And then that laugh—high, breathless, as if she’d told a joke only ghosts could appreciate. She wasn’t just difficult. She was a legend of discontent…..CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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