Why Didn't They Listen?

This is a late-night attempt at the Day 3 'Halls of Pandemonium' prompt from Bradley Ramsey, as per the picture below:

I'm not sure if I've melded the genre into the form of a poem very well or not, but it was fun/interesting to write, regardless.

I knew when they moved in above,
that something wasn't right.
Strange sights and smells and sometimes screams.
Whether it be day or night.

The first time, we lay awake in bed
kept from slumber by their screams.
The sound not fear or acts of lust
or even just bad dreams.

It was coming up to midnight,
I said I'll check that they're ok.
You said don't bother at this time of night,
speak to them the next day.

The next day was a Sunday,
when I knocked upon their door.
They were pleasant but evasive,
said they'd be quieter for sure.

And quiet they did seem to be,
when I was not alone.
Though when I had no company,
it chilled me to the bone.

Sitting watching football,
came a strange, uneasy feeling,
a gurgling and scratching sound
was coming through my ceiling.

I relayed it to you one night,
you said "record, so I can hear",
though when I played it back to you,
there was no sound, it was clear.

I tried to capture something
that would make you understand
that something was quite off up there,
something dark or underhand.

The pattern went on over months,
sometimes scratching, or a thud
though only when at home alone.
One day I thought I saw blood.

It led from my front door,
up the stairs, outside their place.
Though when you came around to look
there was not even a trace.

You said to me they didn't seem
to be behind the noise.
It never happened when you stayed
perhaps I'd just lost poise.

I felt like I was losing it,
imagining these things.
Had I lost control of my mind?
Were they pulling at my strings?

I'd gave concerns to my landlord,
who said he'd check them out,
though soon he messaged me right back
'they're great tenants, there's no doubt'.

You said I perhaps need to chill
or get some therapy.
Maybe I had anxiety,
you knew someone I could see.

I even called the police one night,
hearing choking, strangulation.
Though the officer, he said to me
it was my imagination.

One night and through the morning,
came a loud metallic clashing,
you wasn't there, it didn't stop,
my mental state was crashing.

I needed to confront them,
to settle aching mind.
Though I never had imagined
just what it was, I'd find.

They were so very much friendlier
than they had been before,
said 'come in for a cup of tea',
beckoned me through their door.

Immediately, I smelt something
from close by, there within,
I saw an empty bin for waste
poking out, it seemed, was skin.

I then took a step closer,
to see what it was in there
I gasped and then recoiled.
Saw your eyes, your nose and hair.

A grin appeared upon their lips,
'now be our guest', they said.
The next thing I remember,
waking, chained to a small bed.

I lay here every day now,
looking through window of mesh.
Occasionally they both appear
to cut and flay my flesh.

They say they want to see
how much they can peel back,
depositing what they remove
in an old hessian sack.

The pain, it doesn't ease,
I'm praying for the day,
the end comes and this is over.
That it all will go away.

I never ever thought this way,
would be the end for me.
Why did nobody believe me?
Why would they just not see?

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