The Morning Paper

It’s been three years since I last wrote here. The events of last week forced me to break my silence.

I’m Maya, a data analyst, and my husband, Arjun, is a software engineer. We moved to a quaint town called Cedar Falls for his new job. Our house, a two-story Victorian with a wrap-around porch, was a steal. It was old but charming, with creaky floors and a fireplace we rarely used. The realtor mentioned the previous owner was an elderly man who passed away, and the house had been vacant for a year. We didn’t mind; the rent was low, and the town was quiet.

The first week was bliss. We unpacked, painted the living room a warm yellow, and hung family photos. Our neighbors were friendly, always waving as they passed. The only odd thing was the newspaper. Every morning, a fresh copy of the Cedar Falls Gazette lay on our doorstep, even though we never subscribed. When I called the paper, they said they didn’t deliver to our address. I tried to catch the delivery person, but they always vanished before I could.

On the eighth morning, I was determined. I set my alarm for 5 a.m. and waited by the window. At precisely 5:15, I saw a figure in a long coat approach, bend down, and place something on the step. I rushed to the door, but by the time I opened it, the street was empty. The paper was there, wrapped in a rubber band. The headline read: ‘Local Woman Found Dead in Her Home.’ I shivered, but the name was unfamiliar.

That evening, Arjun noticed the paper and frowned. ‘We should stop this,’ he said, but I was curious. I flipped through the inside pages and found a small article about a family who moved into a Victorian house on Maple Street. I almost dropped the paper—that was us. The article said the couple had ‘been here for three days’ and were ‘new to the community.’ It was dated that morning. How did they know? I checked the paper’s date; it was today’s. But the details about our arrival were from the day we moved in. I decided to ignore it, blaming it on a slow news day.

The next morning, the headline was different: ‘Car Accident on Route 9 Claims Two Lives.’ The article again mentioned us, saying we were ‘seen leaving the scene’—but that was impossible; we were home all night. I started to feel uneasy. I tried to cancel the newspaper again, but the calls went to a dead line. I tore up the paper and threw it in the trash.

On the third day, the headline was: ‘Break-In at Maple Street Victorian House.’ The article described a break-in that had occurred ‘last night,’ yet our house was undisturbed. The details were specific: the couple, the couple’s dog (we didn’t have one), and the stolen silver candlesticks (we didn’t own any). I felt a chill run down my spine. Arjun tried to calm me, saying it was a prank or a mistake.

But then, on the fourth day, I found a headline that made my blood run cold: ‘Woman Found Dead in Her Bathroom.’ The picture was grainy, but I could see the floral tiles—the same as ours. I dropped the paper, my hands trembling. Arjun read it and paled. The article said the woman had ‘slipped in the shower and hit her head.’ It was dated tomorrow.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept staring at the bathroom door, imagining my own body on the floor. The next morning, I didn’t want to open the door, but Arjun insisted. He went out and came back with the paper, his face ashen. He handed it to me without a word. The headline was blank, just a black rectangle. I flipped through the pages; they were all blank except for the last one, which had a single sentence: ‘Tomorrow, you’ll see the truth.’

That night, we stayed up, watching the clock. At 2 a.m., we heard a faint rustling in the kitchen. We crept downstairs and found the newspaper sitting on the counter, unfolded, with a headline in bold letters: ‘The Woman in the Bathroom Was You.’ I screamed. Arjun pulled me close, but I couldn’t stop shaking.

We decided to leave. We packed in a frenzy, but as we reached the front door, we found it locked from the outside. The key wouldn’t turn. We were trapped. Through the window, I saw the figure in the long coat standing on the porch, watching us. It raised a hand and pointed at me.

I don’t remember what happened after that. The next morning, I woke up in my bed, alone. Arjun was gone. I ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror—my face was pale, and there was a bruise forming on my forehead. On the floor lay the newspaper, with the headline: ‘New Couple Moves Into Victorian House on Maple Street.’ The article was dated today, and it described us moving in, as if it was our first day.

I’ve written this post as a warning. If you find a newspaper on your doorstep that you didn’t order, leave. Leave now, before it becomes your reality. I can’t escape. The house won’t let me. And every morning, the paper is there, waiting to tell me my next tragedy.