The Notes on the Door

Chapter 1

I’ve never written anything like this before, and I’m not the type to believe in the paranormal. But this has been happening to me for almost two weeks now, and I need to tell someone. Even if it’s just to hear that I’m overreacting… or that I’m not losing my mind. My name’s Ryan. I’m 31. I live in an old walk-up apartment in Salem, a quiet town in upstate New York. I moved here to Caldas Street after a messy breakup—needed a fresh start, some time alone. The place is modest, a little worn down, but comfortable. A fifth-floor unit with no elevator, thin walls, neighbors who barely nod hello. Perfect for disappearing for a while. The first note showed up nine days ago. It was a yellow sheet folded in half, like from an old notebook, slipped under my door. I thought it was a flyer or a notice from the landlord, but no: just one sentence, handwritten in black ink. “Don’t let it in.” No signature, no explanation. The writing was small, slanted to the right, with uneven pressure. Didn’t seem like a prank, but it made no sense. Maybe it was meant for another apartment. Or some weird street art thing… kids these days. I left it on the counter and forgot about it. Next morning, there was another. This one said: “It watches you sleep.” Goosebumps crawled up my arms. Who was writing these? And how did they know which apartment was mine? Checked the peephole—nothing. Stepped into the hallway—empty. Knocked on a few doors nearby. No answer. Told myself it was just a bored neighbor. Maybe some teenager from downstairs. Decided to ignore it. On day three, no note. I relaxed. Then on day four, it came back. This time it was different: “3:17 AM. Lock the door tonight.” Here’s the creepy part: that night, I’d woken up for no reason at exactly 3:17 AM. I remember staring at my phone’s clock. Didn’t connect it until I read the note the next morning. After that, the notes didn’t stop. One every night, always different. Sometimes warnings (“Don’t talk to it if it mimics my voice”), other times almost pleading (“Listen to me, please”). Some made no sense at all—jumbled phrases like “The windows lie” or “Who answers when you’re asleep?” Yesterday, for the first time, the note wasn’t under the door. It was taped dead center on the outside, with old masking tape. Like someone wanted me to see it before I walked in. It said: “You’re looking from the wrong side.” I froze for a full ten seconds. Can’t explain why, but it felt different. Like it wasn’t a warning anymore… more like it was mocking me. Checked the doorbell cam—no one there. Asked a couple neighbors if they’d seen anything. “Nobody comes around here after ten,” the lady in 3B said. Today I installed a cheap security camera in the hallway, pointed right at my door. Tonight, I’ll catch whoever’s doing this. But here’s what doesn’t add up: this morning, the camera was off. Like it powered down on its own. The footage was blank. And the note was still there. Only this time… It wasn’t on the outside. It was on the inside of the door.

Chapter 2

I tried not to panic. Really tried. The camera was still mounted in the hallway. No tampering, no fingerprints. But the footage was empty. Zero seconds recorded. Not even me leaving for work. And the note—that goddamn note. Taped on the inside, right by the deadbolt. “Don’t open it, even if you hear yourself.” I barely slept, if you could call it that. Kept jolting awake with the certainty someone was in the apartment. No sounds, no shadows. Just that dumb primal feeling, like eyes drilling into the back of your skull from the corner of the room. Yesterday I changed tactics: started recording inside too. Left my phone filming the entryway, aimed straight at the door. Watched the footage this morning. Took me three coffees to work up the nerve. First three hours—nothing. Just the muffled sound of me snoring down the hall. Then at 3:16 AM, a soft click. The lock turning. From the inside. After that… silence. No one comes in. No one goes out. But at 3:17 AM, a shadow flickers for one second. Can’t even describe it. Not a person. More like a distortion… like the air itself warped for a split second. When I woke up at 7:03 AM, the note was already on the door. The footage never shows it appearing. Today there were two notes. One on the bathroom mirror: “You’re already inside.” And one in the kitchen. The worst one. “Thanks for letting me in.” I can’t explain this part right. But I’m starting to forget things. Found a dirty coffee mug this morning I don’t remember using. Swore I locked the windows last night, but one was wide open at dawn. And there’s something else. Something I didn’t want to admit. I went back through the old notes today. Kept them all in a shoebox—guess part of me wanted proof. But when I looked closely at the handwriting… It’s mine. Not exactly, but close enough. Same curl on the lowercase ‘a’s, same way I cross my ‘t’s. Even the ink smudges where I press too hard. Compared one to a grocery list I wrote last week… no difference. Am I writing these? I don’t remember doing it. Sleepwalking? Losing my mind? I need to get out. Called a friend this afternoon, said I might crash at her place. She told me to come tomorrow. But tonight… tonight changed everything. Just found a final note five minutes ago. Not on the door. Inside my bedroom closet. “Don’t leave. I like living with you.” And it was signed. In my name. Ryan.