
When mysterious notes started showing up in Melanie’s apartment, she found herself questioning her own sanity — and whether her charming neighbor had something to do with it. She needed to figure out if someone was stalking her or if her mind was playing tricks on her before it was too late.
It began on a Tuesday morning. Mornings seemed to blend into each other in a fog of sleepless nights and endless cups of coffee. I was halfway through making breakfast when I found it.

The toaster had already started its job when I reached for eggs in the fridge. That’s when I saw it: a bright yellow Post-it note at eye level.
“Get groceries. Running low,” it said in a sprawling scrawl that wasn’t mine. I favor a refined print, a habit from my teaching days — ensuring thirty second-graders could follow along with ease.
With a frown, I traced the letters.

The ink looked freshly written, edges slightly blurred as if it was still settling into the paper. It sent shivers through me that I couldn’t shake off.
“Weird,” I whispered as I reached past it for the eggs. At that moment, I realized the carton was unusually light — only two eggs left. Could I have gone through that many?
The acrid aroma of burnt toast pulled me out of my daze.

I quickly grabbed the charred bread from the toaster, dispersing the smoke with my hand as it lazily wafted up, accusing me of neglect.
My apartment’s ancient ventilation struggled pathetically, reminiscent of a wheezing feline. The humor in the situation was lost in my irritation.
“It’s going to smell like this for hours,” I groaned, tossing the toast into the bin. “Add it to the list of charming features of this place, along with the moody heater and those mysterious water marks in the bathroom.”

Without further thought, I carried on my morning, ready to dismiss the note as a blip. But things grew stranger, and my sense of unease deepened.
Two days later, I was baffled to find my keys chilling in the fridge and another note taped to my laptop, “Project report due Friday. Don’t mess up this time.”
These words twisted my stomach. I knew I was struggling to focus, but this felt like a judgmental specter hovering over me.

That day also revealed orange juice in my microwave. A shock, truly, as I never buy orange juice due to its acidity. The unbroken seal looked almost ominous, an orange beacon through the microwave door.
I reached for my phone, unsure whether to call the police or a family member.
But what could I say? “Hello, someone’s been sneaking in to help me remember work deadlines and add to my shopping list?”

Sighing, I placed the phone down, massaged my temples as an insistent headache bloomed.
“This is ridiculous,” I murmured. A deep breath made me cringe as the stagnant air filled my lungs. “I needed air freshener ages ago,” I thought as my mind slipped through its own fog. Or had I already purchased it? There was a vague memory of mulling over options in the store.

The following morning, my bathroom mirror bore a new message: “Be grateful for all the reminders, it’s tough to keep track.”
The red ink stood out boldly against the misted glass. My attempt to erase it only smudged the words into crimson trails, mimicking teardrops.
I gazed at my reflection, at the dark circles that seemed to spread like shadows under storm clouds. My green eyes had lost their spark, my skin’s healthy glow dimmed.

A stranger’s exhausted visage returned the stare. “What on earth is happening?”
The thought lingered, unanswered. Yet somewhere deep down, a whisper insisted that some truths should remain buried.
In light of this, I opted to install a webcam. Just a basic model perched strategically at my desk.

My goal was to capture whoever might be intruding. From my endless parade of true crime shows, I knew the value of physical proof before contacting authorities. Anything else would label me paranoid.
My sister often teased my true crime fascination. “One day, you’ll think everyone is a suspect,” she’d teased.
It seemed less an amusing quip now, more an accurate prediction.

That evening was spent adjusting, ensuring every angle was covered. The camera’s LED blinked steadily, a vigilant eye in a mechanical guardian.
The building’s rhythmic creaks heightened my alertness, making my imagination dance shadows into sinister figures. Even the ice maker’s clunking sent bolts of adrenaline through me.

Before bed, I relinquished myself to the comfort of light-filled rooms, setting the utility bill aside in my mind.
“You’re being silly,” I reprimanded, snugged under the covers. No one was breaking in to issue grocery lists. But unease clung to me, eyes flitting to the shadowy doorway.
The night brought unsettling dreams. A figure moved in my apartment, hints of familiarity escaping every time I neared identifying them.

Focusing on their face was like observing through misty glass. I awoke breathless, head pulsing with pain, sweat soaked into my sheets.
By morning, paranoia only bolstered itself under the stark light of reality.
The camera was simply nonexistent.

And there awaited another note on the fridge, glowing solemnly: “Milk! You’re really slipping. How many reminders do you need?”
The lines seemed angrier, letters etched deep, nearly penetrating the paper’s surface.
I traced the indentation with trembling fingers, questioning the possibility that I could have penned it myself. The pen’s trail seemed once more freshly cast.

Did I rise from bed unwittingly? Everything seemed shrouded, as if my life was unfolding underwater.
The sound of a newspaper hitting the hallway jarred me from my thoughts, loud against the quiet. I pressed a hand to my heart, attempting to calm its rapid pace.
Fed up with how oppressive my apartment felt, I left in haste, not bothering with the mirror, certain my reflection would only echo how I felt.

I almost collided with Ron, quite literally running into him in the hallway.
“Melanie?” His hand steadied me, warmth emanating from its touch, grounding me in the present. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried after your visit last night.”

I froze, icy realization setting in. “What?”
“Last night,” he repeated softly, slowly releasing his hold but maintaining that connection. His eyes searched my face, seeing more than I wished to show. “You seemed out of sorts when you stopped by.”
“I didn’t come by last night,” I cut in sharply, dread creeping into my voice. “I stayed home.”

Ron’s eyes widened, an flicker of emotion passed — concern? Guilt?
“But you did. You were very distracted, something about giving me something”
“I’m late,” I interrupted, retreating to my car with haste.
The hallway seemed to constrict, closing in uncomfortably like a noose. Jittery hands fumbled with keys, dropping them twice before succeeding.

That’s when a long-buried memory surfaced: Ron had a spare key for emergencies. Or at least, he did until he supposedly lost it after my vacation.
Had he really? The implications left me dizzy. Trust, sanity, and security — what if all were lost before I even noticed?
In my car, I sought calm, breath by measured breath. Ron had always been a great neighbor. Kind, considerate, maybe even cute.
Our relationship had developed into casual camaraderie with shared takeout on late nights and mutual care of our spaces during absences.

I’d imagined asking him out at times. Something more than friendly food sharing.
Yet now? Now all I could ponder was that key and how Ron often seemed to know the precise weight of my day.
The workday proved dismal. The headache persisted, fluorescent lights only amplifying my suffering. Everyone seemed to notice.

“You look awful,” my coworker Sarah remarked at lunch. “Go home for heaven’s sake.”
I shook my head, a wave of regret soon followed. “Can’t. Important project due Friday,” I mumbled.
“But that was last week,” Sarah said, confusion coloring her words. “Remember? Jenkins praised you for it.”

Caught off guard, I halted mid-sandwich. What of the note?
“What note?” she asked.
How could I explain a chain of events that hinted at implausible scenarios? That maybe, just maybe, my trusted neighbor was orchestrating these odd occurrences?

Two days later, the final note tipped the balance: “We should talk soon, before it’s too late.”
It taunted me from my bedroom mirror — highlighting that someone had been where I slept. The thought alone sickened me.
I reached a breaking point, marching to Ron’s door, demanding clarity. When he opened it, my missing webcam nestled on a shelf caught my eye.

“You!” I accused, prodding him for answers. “You’ve been in my space, doing—”
Shocked, he protested, “No, no! You came over, insisted I take it. Tried to return it, but—”
“Lies!” The world tilted. Darkness tinged my vision. “I never… did…”
His concerned face was the last thing in sight as consciousness slipped away.

Awakening, I found myself in a hospital, an oxygen mask obscuring the familiar hum of my apartment’s AC. Ron by my side, watchful, as was a kindly doctor.
“Don’t remove it,” the doctor advised, pinning my hand from doing otherwise. “Your symptoms and test results indicate carbon dioxide poisoning.”

Breathless, I nodded, slowly finding words to detail the eerie episodes, the notes, and forgotten tasks.
The doctor elaborated, “Your symptoms align with exposure, your ventilation might be compromised.”
“I warned the landlord about checks in this old building,” Ron murmured, regret lining his features.

“Carbon dioxide? Threatening notes? Why turn on myself?” my quiet voice asked.
The doctor’s glance held sympathy. “Oxygen deprivation affects thought processes, as can frequent crime shows.”