The Death of a Party

I was never a fan of hip-hop. Yet, I was never dismayed to hear it pumping out of a nearby house, mixed with the voices of people having fun on a thursday night. Because, y'know, you just can't wait for the weekend. And who has class on a friday anyway?
Oddly enough, all the laughing voices, all the singing and rowdy fun, it doesn't keep me up. I would never call in a noise complaint. But, the RAs still have to shut these rambunctious parties down at an hour past midnight, because (or so they claim) people are studying. I think this is a myth. There is no such thing as a studious undergraduate.
Like a cord being pulled, the party stopped at exactly one o'clock. In the middle of a sing along, bass rumbling through the ground, clinking glasses and ecstatic shouting, there was suddenly silence.
I wondered if somebody closed the door, or if the RAs had come.
Like a ghost calling out for retribution, my window humms a little, fuzzing out an echo of a beat that may or may not be a hip-hop song.
The party is over. The party's ghost lingers.