I’ve always been a list person. Groceries, chores, projects, appointments — I write it all down. Something about crossing things off makes me feel in control.
Last month, I bought a fresh notebook. Clean pages, crisp lines. At the top of page one, I scrawled:
To-Do List
1 Buy milk
2 Call Mom
3 Take out trash
Easy. Ordinary.
That night, I left the notebook on my desk and went to bed.
The next morning, I found something new written under my list:
4. Don’t look under the bed.
I froze. The handwriting wasn’t mine.
I laughed nervously, telling myself I must have written it half-asleep. Some weird joke. I crossed it out and went about my day.
But the next night, another entry appeared:
5. Lock the bathroom door tonight.
My chest tightened. Again, not my handwriting. And worse — I never left the notebook open.
By the third day, I was terrified to even check. Still, curiosity won.
The page now read:
6. Stop ignoring me.
I dropped the pen. “What the hell is this?” I muttered.
That night, I set up my phone to record. Hours of footage later, I watched as the pen lifted itself, hovered over the page, and scrawled shaky black letters across the paper.
7. You’re not safe.
I barely slept.
The next morning, I tried to throw the notebook away. Tossed it in the dumpster outside, drove across town just to get away from it.
But when I came home, it was on my desk.
Waiting.
The list had grown longer.
8. Don’t answer the phone at 3:17 a.m.
9. Check the front door.
I stared at it, heart pounding. At that exact moment, there was a knock at the door.
My hands shook as I opened it. No one was there. Just an envelope on the mat.
I tore it open. Inside was a scrap of notebook paper.
And in the same jagged handwriting, one final line:
10. Stop reading. I’m behind you.
