The Crumpled Note

Ever since the incident with my daughter, I’ve felt like the world has a thin, tearable membrane that sometimes lets things through. I had moved to a quiet town in the foothills of the Appalachians, renting the top floor of a Victorian house that had been split into three apartments. The ground floor had been empty for months, ever since the elderly Mr. Harlow had been taken to a care facility. The landlord, a nervous man named Pete, had mentioned that Mr. Harlow’s family had cleared out most of his belongings but left some old furniture.

Two nights ago, I was sitting in my living room, the glow of the TV flickering across the walls, when I felt the urge for a cigarette. I stepped onto my balcony, which overlooked a small, overgrown backyard. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. As I lit my cigarette, I heard a sound below me: the unmistakable creak of a sliding glass door. It came from the ground-floor apartment.

I leaned over the railing, squinting into the darkness. The sliding door was now slightly ajar, a sliver of blackness between the frame and the glass. The interior was pitch black. I could see nothing moving. I called out, ‘Hello?’ but there was no response. Only the whisper of wind through the bare trees. I shrugged it off, thinking it was the wind or the old house settling, and finished my cigarette.

The next morning, as I was heading out to work, I noticed something on the doormat of the ground-floor apartment: a crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up, unfolded it. The handwriting was shaky, almost illegible, but I could make out a single line: ‘Don’t let it see you.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. I showed it to Pete, who seemed uneasy but dismissed it as a prank by the neighborhood kids.

That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I double-checked the locks on my door, even though it was four floors up. Around midnight, I heard the sliding door again. This time, it was more forceful, a bang as if it had been slammed open. I crept to the balcony, heart pounding. Below, the sliding door was wide open, and I could see a faint, milky light emanating from inside the apartment. It wasn’t the flicker of a TV or a lamp; it was a cold, diffuse glow that seemed to pulse.

I decided to investigate. I crept down the creaking stairs, my flashlight in hand. As I reached the ground floor, I saw that the door was open, and the glow was coming from the kitchen area. The room was empty, save for an old armchair in the corner, facing away from me. The light seemed to be coming from behind the chair. I stepped closer, my heart in my throat. ‘Is anyone there?’ I asked, my voice trembling.

The chair began to turn, slowly, as if pushed by an invisible hand. As it rotated, the glow intensified, and I saw the source: a small, glowing object on the floor, like a marble, but it pulsed with a sickly green light. I felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to pick it up. I knelt down, and as my fingers touched it, a cold, paralyzing dread washed over me. I heard a whisper in my ear, a voice that sounded like Mr. Harlow’s, but distorted: ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’

I snatched my hand back and ran. I didn’t stop until I was back in my apartment, all the doors locked. I sat in my living room, shaking, until dawn. The next morning, I saw Pete in the parking lot and told him what I had seen. His face went pale. ‘That was Mr. Harlow’s,’ he said. ‘He was obsessed with that thing. He used to say it was a spirit trapped in stone, and that it would grant wishes if you were brave enough to touch it, but it always took something in return. He was never the same after he got it.’

I decided to move out. I couldn’t stay in that house. But the night before I left, I had a dream. In the dream, I was back in that ground-floor apartment, and the chair was facing me. The glowing object was in my hand, and a voice said, ‘You already touched it. It’s a part of you now.’ I woke up gasping.

Now, I’m in a new apartment in the city, but I can’t shake the feeling that something follows me. Sometimes, I see that faint green glow in my peripheral vision, just for a second. And under my new door, I found a crumpled note in the same shaky handwriting: ‘It’s always with you.’ I don’t know what to do. I’m scared that I’m becoming like Mr. Harlow, slowly losing myself to that thing. And worst of all, I’m starting to hear whispers in my own voice.