Someone Kept Leaving Threatening Notes in My Apartment Where I Lived Alone, When I Found Out Who, I Was Shaken to My Core
When mysterious notes start appearing in Melanie’s apartment, she can’t shake the unsettling suspicion that her charming neighbor might be involved. Racing against time, she must unravel whether she’s being stalked or if something even darker is toying with her mind.
It started on a bleary Tuesday morning. Each day had begun to blur, lost in a fog of sleepless nights and caffeine. As I fumbled to make breakfast, the smell of coffee already filling the kitchen, I opened the fridge and noticed a yellow Post-it note stuck to the milk carton.
“Get groceries. Running low.” The words were scrawled messily — a sharp contrast to my own handwriting, neat and precise from years of teaching second graders. I stared, tracing the uneven letters with my fingertip, a chill spreading down my spine.
“That’s… odd,” I murmured, reaching past the note. The toast started to burn, and I yanked it out, waving away the lazy spirals of smoke curling toward the ceiling. I tossed the toast, shaking off the eerie feeling, dismissing it as some lapse in memory.
But two days later, things escalated. I found my keys in the fridge and another note on my laptop: “Project report due Friday. Don’t mess up this time.” The words felt sharp, almost accusing. Then I spotted an unopened bottle of orange juice in my microwave — something I never bought, acidic as it was for my stomach.
The fear took root. Every step in my apartment felt like walking into someone else’s space, like a stranger had started invading my routines.
I tried calling my sister, then the police, but couldn’t figure out what to say. Help, someone’s breaking into my apartment to leave reminders and orange juice? The words sounded absurd, even to me. So instead, I bought a small webcam, setting it up in my living room. I’d been watching enough true crime shows to know I’d need proof if I went to the police.
Each night, I lay in bed, every creak of the old building magnified in the silence, every shadow a potential intruder. But in the morning, the camera would be gone — simply vanished.
More notes followed, each one darker, eerier than the last. One morning, I found a message on my bathroom mirror in crimson ink: “Be grateful for the reminders. It’s tough to keep track.” The ink blurred with the bathroom’s steam, leaving smears like bloodstains as I wiped the words away. My reflection looked haggard, eyes hollow and wary.
I finally ran out of my apartment in a panic and bumped into Ron, my seemingly perfect neighbor. He looked genuinely worried, steadying me by my elbow.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You seemed so distracted last night.”
“What do you mean, last night?” I hadn’t left my apartment all evening.
“You came by and gave me this.” He gestured toward my missing webcam, sitting innocently on his shelf. His tone was light, but his expression held something unsettling, a look I couldn’t place.
At work, I could barely focus. When my coworker pointed out that I’d already submitted my project the week before, I felt my stomach turn. I was losing time, and my once-familiar life had become a sinister labyrinth of forgotten moments and misplaced objects.
The final straw came with the note on my mirror: “We should talk soon, before it’s too late.” Someone had been in my room while I slept.
I stormed to Ron’s apartment, pounding on his door. He opened it, surprise flashing across his face as I demanded answers. When I pointed at the webcam on his shelf, he stammered, “You gave it to me.”
“No, I didn’t!” I shouted, voice breaking, a cold dread settling deep within me.
In that moment, I realized it was no longer just about mysterious notes or lost memories. Whatever this was, it had started to poison my mind, blurring the line between what was real and what was imagined. And as I stared at Ron, all I could wonder was if he was the anchor keeping me tethered to reality — or the very thing pushing me over the edge.