I never imagined that life could change so drastically in such a small span of time. One evening, I was sitting in my room, the soft hum of my fan mingling with the muted city noises outside, when I first noticed it. A small, folded piece of paper had been slipped under my bedroom door. I froze, unsure whether it had been my imagination, but curiosity got the better of me. I picked it up, unfolded it, and read the words scrawled in messy, uneven handwriting:
"I see you."
A chill ran down my spine. My first thought was a prank, maybe one of my classmates, but no one had any reason to target me. I lived a quiet, uneventful life, or at least I thought I did. I told myself it was probably just a joke and tossed the paper into the trash. But then came the second note.
It appeared the next night, taped to my bathroom mirror. The words were written in black marker:
"You can't hide."
I remember staring at my reflection, the bathroom light flickering ever so slightly, as if to emphasize the message. I searched every corner, every shadow, but the room was empty. My heart raced. I considered telling my parents, but I feared sounding paranoid. Who would believe that someone was deliberately leaving threatening notes for me, silently watching my every move?
That night, sleep eluded me. Every creak of the house, every sigh of the wind against the window, made me tense. I couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were on me, following my movements. The shadows in the corners of my room seemed heavier somehow, deeper, almost alive. By morning, I was exhausted, yet strangely alert, as though my body had accepted that something unseen was nearby.
The next message arrived in the morning, taped neatly to my school locker. It wasn't just words this time; it was a drawing. A rough sketch of my face, smiling as I opened my locker, my hair falling exactly the way it always did. My fingers trembled as I held the paper. How could anyone know what I looked like so precisely? I wanted to tell someone, anyone — but then I hesitated. My mother had always been quick to dismiss my fears as overactive imagination, and my father… well, he was too busy with work to notice.
Days passed, and the messages grew more personal, more invasive. They weren't just notes anymore. My books would be slightly moved, my pens arranged in perfect lines on my desk. Once, my favorite mug — the one with the cartoon cat I'd had since childhood — appeared on the floor in the middle of my bedroom, filled with water, despite no one entering my room during the night.
The strangest incident happened on a Thursday. I had just returned from school, exhausted and hungry. My backpack was slung over one shoulder, and I was ready to collapse on my bed when I noticed a shadow at the corner of my room. At first, I thought it was the usual trick of sunlight and blinds, but then it moved.
It wasn't much — just the faint outline of a person standing in the doorway. I blinked, and it was gone. My heart pounded as if trying to escape my chest. I ran to my parents, but when they saw my panicked face and the trembling of my hands, they merely offered a sigh and told me I was overreacting.
"You're imagining things, Jenny," my mother said, brushing a stray hair behind my ear. "Maybe you're just stressed with school."
But I knew better. I knew that someone — or something — was watching me.
Then came the last message of that week. It was left on my pillow, folded in the shape of a small triangle. I hesitated before picking it up. My fingers shook, my breath caught in my throat. Opening it, I read the words written in jagged letters that seemed to crawl across the paper like insects:
"I am closer than you think."
I dropped it immediately, and it fluttered to the floor. Panic surged through me, raw and unrelenting. I didn't sleep that night. I couldn't. Every sound, every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside felt like a signal that I was not alone. I was trapped in my own home with an invisible intruder who knew every corner, every shadow, every secret of my life.
The next morning, I made a decision. I had to find out who was doing this. I would not allow myself to become a victim, not without at least trying to fight back. I carefully examined my room, my school notes, my belongings. Nothing seemed out of place… except for the small hints of movement, the odd placement of objects that felt like markers, reminders that I was being observed.
I began documenting everything. Every note, every sketch, every subtle disturbance in my environment was logged in a notebook. I labeled it carefully, chaptering each day's events. I wanted proof, something concrete that I could present to my parents or the authorities. But the more I wrote, the more I felt the presence pressing against my thoughts, as if reading along silently.
It was on the fifth day that I saw him.
I was sitting at my desk, writing down the events of the morning, when I caught a glimpse of a figure outside my window. Just beyond the glass, partially hidden by the curtain, a pair of eyes watched me intently. I froze, my pencil hovering above the page. The figure didn't move; it simply stared. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.
I didn't tell anyone. I couldn't. Who would believe me? It was worse than a nightmare — it was a nightmare that refused to end, a relentless stalking that crept into every corner of my life.
That night, I slept with the lights on, my notebook clutched to my chest. Every creak, every whisper of wind made me flinch. I felt a strange mixture of fear and fascination, as if this presence was teaching me something I couldn't yet understand. The notes, the sketches, the objects — they were all messages, invitations to something beyond my comprehension.
And deep down, I knew it was only the beginning.
Something had awakened in the shadows, something patient and enduring. I had stepped unknowingly into a game I didn't understand, a world where reality and fear intertwined. And the first messages were only the start — the gentle taps at the edges of my life, the whispers from the dark, signaling that soon, nothing would ever be the same again.
By the end of that week, I was exhausted, frayed at the edges, yet strangely alert. I had started noticing patterns — the way the notes were folded, the slight variations in handwriting, the timing of their arrival. It was as if someone wanted me to see, to recognize, to respond. And maybe, in some twisted way, I had already responded.
I didn't know who he was, or why he had chosen me. But I knew one thing with terrifying clarity: my life had changed. And the messages were not done yet.
The next day, as I approached my front door, I found another piece of paper. This time, it wasn't folded. It was pinned directly to my doorframe. I stared at it, my stomach tightening. The handwriting was jagged, almost angry. I read the words aloud, my voice trembling:
"I know your name. Jenny."
And in that instant, I realized — this was no longer just a game of notes. This was personal.
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