You ever have one of those moments where something strange happens, and you just shrug it off? Like, maybe you forgot where you put your keys, or you swore you left your coffee cup on the counter, but now it’s on the table?
That was me. I was the queen of “eh, it’s probably nothing.”
So, when I found a yellow Post-it note on my desk, one that I knew for sure I hadn’t written, I didn’t think too much of it at first. The note was in weird, shaky handwriting, listing random tasks:
- Buy cucumbers and crackers
- Mail a letter
Sure, those were things I had thought about doing. But I hadn’t written them down, and I hadn’t told anyone about them.
I frowned at it, checked my phone calendar to see if I had somehow set a reminder and forgotten, then shrugged. Maybe I had scribbled it down half-asleep. Maybe my brain was just playing tricks on me.
But also… who even mails letters anymore? I emailed people. Unless it was a package I needed to send? But what package?
I had no clue.
So, I tossed the note in the trash and moved on.
A few days later, another note appeared.
Same yellow Post-it. Same wobbly handwriting.
“Make sure you save your documents.”
Okay. Now that was creepier.
“What the hell, Mila?” I muttered to myself. “Are you sleepwriting?”
I was a freelance writer, working on a big project the night before. Had I written this and forgotten?
No way. No. Absolutely not.
I lived alone. My door had been locked. There were no signs of a break-in. There was no missing or stolen property. Just the note.
I told myself it was probably stress, that I was working too much and not sleeping enough. So, I threw it away again.
Then, it happened again.
I woke up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, feeling like something was off. I reached for my phone, but my hand brushed against something else instead.
A Post-it note. Right there. On my bedside table.
“Our landlord isn’t letting me talk to you, but it’s important that we do.”
I sat up straight, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Who was writing these? And why was my landlord suddenly involved?
I tore through my apartment, checking the locks, the windows—everything. There were no signs of forced entry. Nothing was missing. But this was different. Someone, or something, was leaving messages.
I needed proof.
Luckily, I had an old webcam. I set it up on my desk and used a security app that would record any motion detected.
The next morning, I checked the footage.
Nothing.
Not because there was no movement—because the files were gone.
My stomach turned.
Not just missing. Deleted.
The only way they could be gone was if someone had erased them.
I checked the recycle bin on my laptop. Empty.
Someone had noticed the camera, accessed my computer, and deleted the files.
I grabbed a kitchen knife, double-checked the locks, and tried to sleep. I couldn’t, but at least I felt a little safer.
The next day, when I got home from the gym, there was another Post-it.
But this one was different.
It was stuck to the outside of my apartment door. And it was blank.
The hair on my arms stood on end.
I yanked it off, my hands shaking. Someone was watching me. They knew I’d noticed the notes. They knew I wasn’t home.
Then, I saw it.
Other doors in my building had them too. Pink, blue, yellow Post-its. All blank.
I bolted.
Jessica, my best friend, opened her door in an oversized hoodie, rubbing her eyes. “Mila? It’s late! What’s going on?”
I pushed past her. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy.”
She frowned. “Okay, but if this is about aliens again—”
“No! This is worse. Jess, I think someone’s been in my apartment.”
That woke her up. I told her everything—the notes, the deleted footage, the blank Post-it outside my door. My voice cracked more than once, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
She didn’t interrupt, just listened, her brows drawn tight in thought.
When I finished, she exhaled. “Mila… have you checked for carbon monoxide?”
“What?” I blinked.
“CO poisoning can cause memory loss, confusion, and paranoia. What if you’re writing the notes yourself and just… not remembering?”
I wanted to argue. I knew my own handwriting. But hadn’t I been feeling off lately? Waking up with headaches? Feeling exhausted no matter how much I slept?
I drove straight to a gas station and bought a carbon monoxide detector.
Back at my apartment, I plugged it in.
The number shot up immediately. 100 ppm.
My vision blurred. The air suddenly felt thick, pressing down on me. I grabbed my bag and stumbled out into the hallway, gulping fresh air.
Jessica arrived minutes later. “Mila, are you okay?”
“No,” I gasped. “The reading was insane.”
A doctor at the hospital later told me, “You’re lucky you caught this when you did. Prolonged exposure at that level could have led to unconsciousness. If you hadn’t left… you might not have woken up.”
A chill ran down my spine.
The next day, I called my landlord, Greg.
He wasn’t surprised.
Not even a little.
He muttered something about “getting it checked” and hung up fast. That didn’t sit right with me. So, I called the city inspector.
The leak wasn’t just in my apartment. It was coming from the parking garage below.
My unit? Directly above it.
I was breathing in carbon monoxide seeping up from below, trapped in my own home like a slow-motion death sentence.
When I confronted Greg, he just said, “You should leave.” No apology. No concern.
I moved in with my cousin. I never went back to that apartment.
But the worst part?
I still don’t know why I wrote that third note.
“Our landlord isn’t letting me talk to you, but it’s important that we do.”
Was that my subconscious trying to warn me? A part of my brain screaming for help while the rest of me slipped further into confusion?
Or was something else trying to get my attention?
I don’t have answers.
But I do have one piece of advice:
If weird things start happening, don’t ignore them.
Because sometimes, paranoia isn’t paranoia at all.
Sometimes, it’s survival.
