The Index Card

It was my second year at Fenwick University, and I’d opted to stay in the dorms again. After the incident in my freshman year—the one I never spoke about—I almost didn’t. But home was a nine-hour drive away, and the cost of an apartment was more than I could handle. So I returned, this time to a different hall, Marrow House, which was older and had a reputation for creaking pipes and temperamental heating. I settled in, telling myself that the past was past, that the new room would be free of whatever had followed me before. For a while, it was. From February through March, things were blessedly normal. My studies consumed me, and the only sleepless nights were born from caffeine and deadlines.

But then, a few days ago, the dorm began to change. It started with small complaints from my hallmates. A guy named Marcus on my floor said his shower would turn on and off by itself at the exact same time his desk lamp flickered. Another, a quiet pre-med student named Priya, claimed her pens and notebooks would vanish from her room, only to reappear in the building’s laundry room, neatly stacked. I dismissed it as nerves, stress, or maybe a prank. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was listening, watching, waiting for me to acknowledge it.

Last night, I decided to work late in the common room, hoping to finish a paper. It was past midnight, and the room was empty save for the humming vending machine. I spread my notes across the table, but as I reached for my favorite pen, I found an index card I didn’t recognize. It was blank, save for a neat line of handwriting that read: “You left me behind.” My blood went cold. I hadn’t shown anyone from my past, not a soul. The letters were precise, almost mechanical, like a computer font.

I tried to laugh it off. I crumpled the card and tossed it in the trash, then went back to my room. But as I climbed the stairs, I heard a faint sound—a rhythmic scratching, like nails on a chalkboard, coming from the direction of my old room. The one I’d vowed never to enter again. My legs trembled, but curiosity, that damned curse, won. I walked toward the door, which was ajar. The room inside was dark, but I could see a silhouette sitting on the bed. It turned its head, and even in the dimness, I recognized the shape of my own face, but the eyes were black voids, and the mouth was stretched in a grin too wide.

“You left me behind,” the thing said, in a voice that was a perfect mimic of my own. “Now you have to come back.” I stumbled backward, my heart pounding, and slammed the door. I ran to my room, locked myself in, and didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I found the index card on my pillow, with a new message: “We’re not done.” I know now that the disappearances, the flickering lights, the creeping dread—they were all just preludes. The real horror has only just begun, and I fear it’s not a ghost or a demon, but a part of me I tried to forget, and it wants me to remember. I don’t know if I can survive what comes next, but I know I can’t run from the index card that keeps finding me, no matter where I hide.