The Grocery List on Her Fridge

My cousin, Elena, had just moved into a new apartment in the city, and she was thrilled about it. She’d always wanted a place of her own, and this one had a nice view of the park. She was also a tech enthusiast, so when she got a new smartphone, she immediately downloaded a messaging app called ‘Chatter’ because it was the latest craze. She’d been using it to keep in touch with friends and family, including me.

One night, I was burning the midnight oil at my own place, finishing some work. My phone buzzed with a message from Elena on Chatter. She said she was going out to meet an old friend from college, someone she hadn’t seen in years. I was happy for her and sent back a smiley emoji. I didn’t think much of it and continued working.

Hours later, I headed home. As I was getting ready for bed, I noticed my phone light up with a message from Elena. It was a photo of her fridge, with a hand-drawn grocery list taped to it. The list was mostly normal – milk, eggs, bread – but at the bottom, in a different handwriting, were the words ‘remember to call the realtor about the leak.’ That was odd because Elena never mentioned a leak, and the handwriting looked hurried, as if someone else had written it.

I called her, but it went straight to voicemail. I assumed she was still out and having a good time, so I went to sleep. The next morning, I tried her again but got no answer. Worried, I went to her apartment. The door was unlocked, and the place was eerily silent. Her phone was on the kitchen counter, and the grocery list was still on the fridge, but the bottom line was now smeared, as if someone had wiped it partially. There was no sign of Elena, but the bathroom door was ajar, and the shower was running.

I called out her name, but only the sound of water answered. When I pushed open the bathroom door, steam filled the room, and the mirror was fogged. Written on the mirror, in a shaky hand, were the words ‘she’s not here.’ I stood frozen, my heart pounding. I backed out of the apartment and called the police.

They found no evidence of a break-in, and Elena’s phone had no calls or messages after the one I’d received. The grocery list was taken as evidence, but the handwriting analysis was inconclusive. The only clue was a faint smell of chlorine in the bathroom, which the police dismissed as a cleaning product.

A week passed with no word from Elena. Then, one evening, my phone buzzed with a message from her on Chatter. It was a photo of a different fridge, this one in what appeared to be a basement. On it, there was another list: ‘bleach, garbage bags, rope.’ My blood ran cold. I tried to track the message, but it came from a null number.

I haven’t told the police about the messages, because I’m afraid they’ll think I’m crazy. Instead, I’ve been trying to decipher the lists. Every time I think I’ve found a clue, another message arrives, each more disturbing than the last. The last one was a photo of a room with a single chair and a camera on a tripod, and the caption: ‘prepare for the interview.’

Now, I’m writing this down to keep a record, but I know the messages are meant for me. I’ve become the keeper of her grocery list, but I fear that whoever is sending them is also watching me. Last night, I found a note under my own fridge door, written in that same shaky hand: ‘You’re next to update the list.’