You ever have one of those moments where something weird happens, and you just brush it off?
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 definitely hadn’t written, I didn’t freak out right away. The handwriting was strange, wobbly, not mine. The note listed a few simple reminders: pick up cucumbers and crackers, mail a letter.
Things I had thought about doing. But I hadn’t told anyone about them. So how did this note end up here?
I frowned, checked my phone calendar to see if I’d set a reminder and forgotten, then shrugged. Maybe I wrote it half-asleep. Maybe my brain was messing with me.
Still… who even mailed letters anymore? Unless it was a package? But what package?
I had no clue.
So I tossed it in the trash and moved on.
A few days later, another note appeared.
Same wobbly handwriting. Same yellow Post-it.
“Make sure you save your documents.”
Okay. Now that was a bit creepy.
“What the hell, Mila?” I muttered to myself. “What are you on, girl?”
I was a freelance writer, working late the night before. But I knew I hadn’t written that note. And yet, there it was, right in the middle of my desk.
I lived alone. My door had been locked. No signs of a break-in. No misplaced or stolen items. Just… the note.
Maybe it was stress. Maybe I was overworked, running on too little sleep. So, I threw it away again and convinced myself it was nothing.
Then, late one night, I woke up.
I wasn’t sure why, but a weird feeling gnawed at me. My room was quiet, the shadows stretching long in the dim glow from my bedside lamp. My heart pounded as I reached for my water bottle.
And that’s when I saw it.
A Post-it note.
On my nightstand.
“Our landlord isn’t letting me talk to you, but it’s important that we do.”
I sat frozen, rereading the words over and over again. My mouth went dry.
Who the hell was writing these notes? And why was my landlord involved?
I tore through my apartment, checking the locks and windows. Nothing. No sign of forced entry. My landlord had a key, but he’d never come in unannounced before. At least, not that I knew of.
Then another realization hit me: my webcam.
After finding the first note, I had set up my old webcam, using a security cam app to record movement.
I scrambled to check the folder.
The files were gone.
Not missing—deleted.
My stomach turned. The only way that could have happened was if someone had erased them. Someone who knew they were being recorded.
Then another thought hit me—the recycle bin.
Empty.
I forced myself to stay calm. I grabbed a kitchen knife, double-checked the locks, and sat in bed, gripping the knife tight. Sleep was impossible. I kept listening for any sound, any movement.
The next morning, when I got back from the gym, there was another Post-it.
But this one was different.
It was stuck to the outside of my apartment door.
Blank.
No message, no shaky handwriting.
Just a pale yellow square pressed against the wood like a silent warning.
A chill ran down my spine. My hands shook as I yanked it off. Someone was watching me. They knew I’d noticed. They knew I wasn’t home.
A sick feeling crawled through me as I turned to head back inside. And that’s when I saw something else.
Other doors in my building had them too.
Different colors—pink, blue, yellow. But all were blank.
Had my neighbors noticed? Had this happened to them too? Or was this some kind of twisted game someone was playing just for me?
I didn’t wait to find out. I grabbed my keys and bolted to my best friend’s apartment.
Jessica opened her door in an oversized hoodie, her hair a mess.
“Mila? It’s…” She turned to check the clock. “Dude, it’s almost ten! I was heading to bed. What’s going on?”
I pushed past her, pacing in her tiny living room.
“I need you to tell me that I’m not crazy.”
Jess rubbed her eyes and shut the door. “Okay, but we’re gonna need some coffee. And if this is about aliens again, I swear—”
“No! This is worse, Jess. I think someone’s been in my apartment.”
That woke her up. She sat down, listening as I explained everything—the notes, the deleted security footage, the empty recycle bin. My voice cracked, my hands trembled.
Jess didn’t interrupt. She just listened, her brows furrowed in thought.
When I finished, she exhaled. “But there’s been no trace of anyone?”
“None! Either they’re covering their tracks or… or I’m losing my mind.”
She hesitated. “Mila, have you checked for carbon monoxide?”
I blinked. “What?”
“CO poisoning. It can cause memory issues, paranoia. What if… what if you’re writing the notes yourself and just not remembering?”
I wanted to argue. I knew my own handwriting. But had I been feeling off lately? Waking up with headaches, struggling to focus?
I left Jessica’s place and bought a carbon monoxide detector.
Back at my apartment, I plugged it in.
The reading shot up immediately. 100 ppm.
A wave of dizziness hit me. The air felt thick, pressing down on my chest.
I grabbed my bag, yanked open my front door, and stumbled into the hallway, gulping in fresh air.
“Jess,” I gasped into the phone.
“Are you okay?”
“No! The reading—it’s bad!”
“I’m coming. Stay outside!”
At the hospital, a doctor in navy scrubs flipped through my chart.
“You’re lucky you caught this, Mila,” he said. “Long-term exposure at that level can be deadly. If you hadn’t plugged in that detector…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
I called Greg, my landlord. He wasn’t surprised.
Not even a little.
He muttered something about “getting it checked” and hung up fast. That didn’t sit right, so I called the city inspector myself.
The real nightmare? The leak wasn’t just in my apartment. It was coming from the building’s parking garage.
And my unit? Right above it.
I was breathing in CO, trapped in my own home like a slow-motion death sentence.
A few days later, I went back for my stuff. The air inside still felt wrong.
As I zipped my duffel bag, a voice stopped me.
“Mila.”
I turned. Greg stood in the hallway, arms crossed. “You’re moving out?”
“You knew,” I said. “About the leak. About everything. Didn’t you?”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And the blank Post-its on other doors? Just a coincidence?”
For a second, something flickered across his face. Then it was gone.
“You should go,” he said flatly.
Something told me I wasn’t the first this had happened to. And I wouldn’t be the last.
So, take my advice:
If weird things start happening, don’t ignore them. Sometimes, paranoia isn’t paranoia at all.
Sometimes, it’s survival.
