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 at first.
The note was written in wobbly, unfamiliar handwriting:
Pick up cucumbers and crackers. Mail the letter.
Weird.
These were things I had thought about doing. But I hadn’t told anyone about them. And yet, here it was, like a ghost had written a to-do list for me.
I frowned, checked my phone calendar to see if I’d set a reminder and forgotten, then shrugged it off. Maybe I’d written it half-asleep. Maybe my brain was messing with me.
But then another thought hit me.
Who even mails letters anymore?
I emailed people. I texted. Unless it was a package? But what package?
I had no clue.
I tossed the note in the trash and moved on.
A few days later, another note appeared. Same yellow Post-it. Same shaky handwriting.
Make sure you save your documents.
Okay. Now that was creepy.
“What the hell, Mila?” I muttered to myself. “What are you on, girl?”
I was a freelance writer. The night before, I’d been working on a big project. Had I written the note? Had my brain just decided to give me a spooky reminder in my sleep?
No. Absolutely not.
I lived alone. My door was locked. There was no sign of a break-in. Nothing misplaced. Nothing stolen.
Just the note.
I told myself I was just stressed, overworked, not sleeping enough. So, I threw it away. Again.
That night, something woke me up.
I didn’t know what, but I was suddenly wide awake.
And when I turned to my bedside table, there was another note waiting for me.
Our landlord isn’t letting me talk to you, but it’s important that we do.
My blood ran cold.
I sat frozen, rereading the words over and over again. My mouth went dry.
The air in my apartment suddenly felt wrong.
Who the hell was writing these notes? And why was my landlord involved?
I tore through my apartment, checking locks, windows, everything. No forced entry. No sign that anyone had been inside.
But then I remembered—my webcam.
A few days ago, after the first note, I’d set up an old webcam on my desk. It was connected to an app that recorded whenever it detected movement.
My hands shook as I clicked open the folder.
Empty.
Not just missing. Deleted.
My stomach turned. I hadn’t touched those files. The only way they could be gone was if someone else had deleted them.
Then another thought hit me.
The recycle bin.
I checked.
Empty.
Someone, who wasn’t me, had seen the camera, gone into my laptop, and erased the footage.
I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, double-checked the locks, and sat on my bed. I couldn’t sleep.
But I didn’t know what else to do.
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.
Blank.
No message. No shaky handwriting. Just a pale yellow square pressed against the wood like a silent warning.
The hair on my arms stood up.
I ripped it off, my hands shaking. Was someone telling me they were watching? That they knew I’d noticed? That they knew I wasn’t home?
And then I saw something else.
Other doors had them too.
Pink, blue, yellow. All blank.
My breath came too fast. My neighbor’s door across the hall had one. Had someone done this to all of us?
I didn’t wait to find out.
I grabbed my keys and bolted out of my apartment.
Jessica opened her door, rubbing her eyes. “Mila? It’s almost ten, dude. What’s going on?”
I pushed past her, pacing. “I need you to tell me that I’m not crazy.”
Jessica yawned, shutting the door. “Okay, but we’re gonna need some coffee. And if this is about aliens again, I’m smacking you.”
“No,” I snapped. “This is worse. 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 on my door. My voice cracked more than once.
Jessica listened, her face tight in thought. Then she exhaled. “Mila, have you checked for carbon monoxide?”
“What?”
“CO poisoning. It can cause memory loss, confusion, paranoia. What if you’re writing the notes and just… not remembering?”
I wanted to argue. But hadn’t I felt off lately? Headaches. Exhaustion. Foggy thoughts.
Was my own brain betraying me?
I drove to a gas station, bought a carbon monoxide detector, and plugged it in. The number on the screen shot up. 100 ppm.
I barely had time to process that before the dizziness hit.
The air in my apartment felt thick, suffocating.
I grabbed my bag, stumbled out into the hallway, gasping for fresh air.
“Jess,” I choked out on the phone. “It’s real bad. I need help.”
In the hospital, a doctor flipped through my chart. “You’re lucky, Mila. Prolonged exposure at 100 ppm can be deadly. If you hadn’t checked, you could have lost consciousness and never woken up.”
I swallowed hard. “How long would I have had?”
“Weeks. Maybe less.”
Jessica squeezed my hand. “You’re okay now. That’s what matters.”
The next day, I called Greg, my landlord. He wasn’t surprised.
Not even a little.
He muttered something about “getting it checked” and hung up fast.
So, I called the city inspector myself.
And that’s when I learned the real nightmare.
The leak was coming from the building’s parking garage.
And my unit? Directly above it.
I had been breathing in CO seeping up from below.
I went back one last time to grab my things.
Greg was there. Watching.
“You’re moving out?” he asked.
“You knew.” My voice was cold.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mila.”
“Right. And the blank Post-its on other doors? Just a coincidence?”
For a second, just a second, something flickered across his face. Then it was gone.
“You should go,” he said flatly.
I stood outside, staring at the building I had nearly died in.
And I have one piece of advice for you:
If weird things start happening, don’t ignore them.
Because sometimes, paranoia isn’t paranoia at all.
Sometimes, it’s survival.
