Satanic possession and a web of "sweet" deceit

For the best part of the last year a demon has lurked beneath.
A chanting, curtain-twitching monster monitoring my every move.
With an early morning habitual chanting ritual, reaching decibels illegal on English soil and audible from the moon, accompanied by continuous window sliding, I have been rudely awoken from blissful slumber on uncountable occasions.
For a long time this anonymous beast was presumed male, ignorant to my desperate banging to mute his anti-social behaviour.
Several Facebook status rants later, it is brought to my attention by my predecessor that the lovingly named "Chanting Man" is actually a woman, and a formidable one, who continues to murmur in foreign tongues until this day.
The one occasion that anything of significance happens in my village, the annual piss up, cunningly disguised as a Hanzaki Matsuri (Giant Salamander Festival), and the entire village is inebriated.
As the clock strikes midnight no one knows their own name, how they got home, or if they are even in the right home.
Everyone except chanting woman, who lurks indoors, surreptitiously watching people carry futons up stairs and into my apartment.
The morning after the night before, I receive a call from my company informing me that, and I quote; the “sweet little old lady” downstairs was "traumatised" by such vast quantities of bedding.
And a scary prospect it is.
Over the following weeks she continues to slide, bang and chant her “holy” ritual at unholy hours.
With the New Year comes my second encounter with the bitch troll from hell, resulting from a faulty faucet and a flooded floor.
Paper thin, Japanese apartments are designed for short-term practicality. However one toilet flush seeping through the ceiling and into the apartment below still comes as some surprise.
My 10,000 Yen water damage deposit has literally been washed down the toilet.
Yet the greater surprise is the way I am alerted to this expensive mishap.
As the clock approaches midnight, there is an irate hammering and bell ringing at my front door, along with several failed attempts to open it.
Terrified of what beast is lurking on the other side so late at night, my life flashes before my eyes, imagination running wild, earthquakes, fires, rapists, murderers……
Who could it be?
Plucking up courage I unlock the door to be presented with a very angry, very fat, very ugly midget hobbit.
Yellowing crooked teeth glisten in the moonlight as its mouth moves in a blur of angry gibberish. All I can decipher is "toilet" and "I live on the first floor".
I have come face to face with the beast who has tormenting me, confronted by my own worst nightmare.
Opening the bathroom door there is a flood of water, which I mop up, apologising profusely and shouting "Nihongo wakarimasen" (I don't understand Japanese).
She sees this as her cue to shout faster and louder as if this will make me understand.
Some ten minutes later, during which my door remains open, Siberian wind and snow blowing in, all my hard earned heat running out, she too finally runs out of heat, about turns and shuffles back through the ice back into the cesspit below.
I pray to his Lord Jesus Christ to send the Grim Reaper to give this abhorrent juggernaut a sharp push on her descent, straight into eternal damnation and the fiery pits of hell.
Prayers unanswered, it lives on.
My too close encounter with this "sweet little old traumatised old lady" puts the dogs under my childhood bed on a par with Elmo. I dread the day I come into contact with bona fide angry Japanese person.
In the meantime I will combat her satanic ranting with heavy metal devil music until the day I return to England while she slowly rots in her own, shrivelled pink shell.