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, written in a shaky, unfamiliar handwriting, I didn’t panic. It reminded me to pick up cucumbers and crackers and to mail a letter.
Weird.
I hadn’t written it. I hadn’t told anyone I needed those things. And who even mailed letters anymore? I emailed people. Unless it was a package… but what package? I had no idea.
Shrugging, I tossed it in the trash. Maybe I’d scribbled it down half-asleep. Maybe my brain was doing that fun thing where it made me question my own reality.
Then, a few days later, another note appeared.
“Make sure you save your documents.”
Okay. That was definitely weirder.
I frowned, rubbing my arms as a shiver ran through me.
“What the hell, Mila? What are you on, girl?” I muttered to myself.
I was a freelance writer, and I had been working on a big project the night before. But no way. I lived alone. My door had been locked. There were no signs of a break-in. No misplaced or stolen items. Just the note.
I told myself it was probably stress, that I was working too much and not sleeping enough. So, I just threw it away again.
That night, I woke up suddenly, heart pounding, though I had no idea why. I reached for my phone, but my fingers brushed against something else.
Another Post-it note.
I sat up slowly, my throat dry as I turned on my bedside lamp.
“Our landlord isn’t letting me talk to you, but it’s important that we do.”
I stared at it, my stomach twisting into knots. The air in my apartment suddenly felt wrong.
Who was writing these notes? And why was my landlord involved?
Panic surged through me. I checked the locks. The windows. There were absolutely no signs of forced entry. My landlord had a key, but he had never entered unannounced before. And even if he had… why would he leave notes instead of just talking to me?
Then, a thought hit me.
My webcam.
I had set up an old webcam on my desk after the first note, using a security cam app to record whenever it detected movement. My fingers trembled as I opened the folder on my laptop.
The files were gone.
Not just missing. Deleted.
A sick feeling crawled up my spine. I hadn’t touched them. The only way they could be gone was if someone else had deleted them.
I clicked on the recycle bin. Empty.
Someone had noticed the camera, gone into my laptop, and erased the footage.
I barely slept that night, gripping a kitchen knife under my pillow. But the next day, when I returned from the gym, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
Another Post-it.
This time, it was stuck to the outside of my apartment door.
Blank.
Just a pale yellow square pressed against the wood like a silent warning.
My hands shook as I ripped it down. But then, I noticed something else.
Other doors in my building had them too.
Pink. Blue. Yellow. But all blank.
Were they being watched too? Was this some sort of twisted message?
I didn’t wait to find out. I bolted out of my apartment and ran straight to Jessica’s place.
Jessica opened her door, yawning, wearing an oversized hoodie. “Mila? Dude, it’s almost ten. What’s going on?”
I shoved past her, pacing into her tiny living room. “I need you to tell me that I’m not crazy.”
Jessica rubbed her eyes. “Okay, but I’m making coffee. And if this is about aliens again, I swear—”
“No! Jess, this is worse.” My voice cracked as I told her everything—the Post-it notes, the deleted security footage, the empty recycle bin.
She didn’t interrupt, just listened, her brow furrowed in deep thought. When I finished, she let out a slow breath.
“Mila… have you checked for carbon monoxide?”
I blinked. “What?”
“CO poisoning, girl. It can cause memory loss, confusion, paranoia. What if you’re writing the notes yourself and just… not remembering?”
I wanted to argue, but the idea gnawed at me. Hadn’t I been feeling off lately? Waking up with headaches? Feeling exhausted? Struggling at the gym?
“I need a detector,” I whispered.
I drove to a gas station, bought one, and plugged it into my bedroom.
The number on the screen shot up immediately. 100 ppm.
My head spun. The air in my apartment suddenly felt thick and suffocating. I grabbed my bag, yanked open my door, and stumbled into the hallway, gasping for fresh air.
Jessica answered my call instantly. “Are you okay?”
“No. The reading is insane!”
“I’m coming. Stay outside.”
At the hospital, the doctor gave me a serious look. “You’re lucky you caught this, Mila. Prolonged exposure at 100 ppm could have caused permanent damage. Eventually, you might have lost consciousness and never woken up.”
A chill ran down my spine.
Jessica squeezed my hand. “You’re okay now, and that’s what matters.”
The next day, I called my landlord, Greg. He didn’t sound surprised. Not even a little.
“I’ll get it checked,” he muttered before hanging up.
That didn’t sit right with me, so I called the city inspector myself. And that’s when I learned the real nightmare.
The leak wasn’t just in my apartment.
It was coming from the building’s parking garage.
And my unit? It was directly above it.
I was breathing in CO seeping up from below, trapped in my apartment like a slow-motion death sentence.
I confronted Greg a few days later. He stood in the hallway, arms crossed. “You’re moving out?”
“You knew,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mila.”
“The leak, Greg. You weren’t surprised when I called. How long has it been there? How many tenants have complained?”
Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe?—but it disappeared just as fast. “You should go.”
I left, but I couldn’t shake one thought.
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 it my subconscious trying to warn me? Or was something else trying to get my attention?
I may never know. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s this:
If something feels off, don’t ignore it.
Because sometimes, paranoia isn’t paranoia at all.
Sometimes, it’s survival.
