The Night My Sleepwalking Neighbour Solved a Mystery (Kind Of)

The Night My Sleepwalking Neighbour Solved a Mystery (Kind Of)

Living in a slightly older apartment building often comes with its quirks. In my case, it was my neighbour, Arthur. A kindly but eccentric gentleman in his late seventies, Arthur lived on the ground floor while I occupied the slightly creaky top level. Our interactions were usually limited to rent collection and the occasional chat about the weather. Until the night of the Great Missing Sock Mystery.
It started subtly. Socks would vanish from my laundry basket. Not pairs, mind you, just singles. It was infuriating. I'd meticulously pair them after washing, only to find one sock mysteriously gone the next day. I checked under the bed, behind the drawers – the usual sock black holes. Nothing.
The disappearances escalated. Soon, not just socks, but small items of clothing – a t-shirt, a scarf – started vanishing. I began to suspect a mischievous ghost, or perhaps a very small, very selective thief.
One particularly frustrating morning, after discovering yet another sock MIA, I decided to mention it to Arthur during rent collection. He listened intently, stroking his chin with a thoughtful frown. "Missing items, you say? Hmm, peculiar."
He offered no solutions, just a vague promise to "keep an ear out." I didn't expect much.
That night, I was woken by a strange shuffling sound from downstairs. It was rhythmic and soft, like someone dragging their feet. Concerned, I cautiously crept to the top of the stairs, peering down into the dimly lit hallway.
There was Arthur. In his pajamas. And he was sleepwalking.
His eyes were closed, his arms outstretched, and he was… collecting things. Small, random objects scattered around the hallway – a stray pen, a coaster, my missing blue sock that had vanished just that morning. He moved with a slow, deliberate purpose, gathering the items and placing them carefully on the hall table.
I watched, utterly bewildered, as he completed his nocturnal collection ritual, then shuffled back towards his apartment.
The next morning, I found my missing blue sock, along with a motley assortment of other small, seemingly random items, neatly arranged on the hall table.
I approached Arthur later that day, a mixture of amusement and disbelief in my voice. "Arthur," I began gently, "did you… happen to be up and about last night?"
He looked confused. "Up and about? No, I had a lovely sleep. Why do you ask?"
I explained what I had witnessed. A look of dawning realization spread across his face, followed by a sheepish grin. "Oh, dear," he chuckled. "It seems my nocturnal wanderings have a purpose after all. I do have a bit of a… sleepwalking habit, you see. Apparently, I'm a collector in my sleep."
The mystery of the missing socks (and the t-shirt and the scarf, which later reappeared on the hall table) was solved. My landlord was a sleepwalking kleptomaniac of small, inanimate objects.
Arthur was mortified but also slightly amused by his unconscious hobby. He promised to try and be more… contained during his nighttime strolls.
Life in the creaky old building took on a new, slightly surreal dimension. Every time something small went missing, I'd eye the hall table with a knowing smile. And occasionally, I'd find a new, random item mysteriously appearing there overnight, courtesy of Arthur's somnambulant collecting habits. It wasn't exactly solving a grand mystery, but it certainly made life in our quirky old building a little more… interesting. And I started keeping a closer eye on my smaller belongings before turning in for the night. You never knew what Arthur's sleeping self might deem a worthy addition to his unconscious collection.