The Sticky Note on the Fridge

The old farmhouse had been quiet for weeks. I’d started to believe they were gone, those things that had plagued us since we moved in. But then, the sticky note appeared.

It was a Tuesday. My mother had finished dressing my little brother, Leo, but she had to take a call and asked me to help him with his shoelaces. As I knelt to tie them, Leo was chattering about his preschool, about a game of tag, when he suddenly fell silent. His gaze locked on the kitchen doorway, his small face pale.

‘Marcus,’ he whispered, ‘why is Marcus standing there?’

My blood ran cold. Marcus was the name of the previous owner’s son, who had died in this very house, decades ago. I never told Leo that. I forced a laugh. ‘There’s no one there, buddy.’

But Leo shook his head, insistent. ‘He’s smiling. He says he’s back.’

I didn’t sleep that night. The name Marcus echoed in my mind. I’d heard the house had a history of strange occurrences, but we’d been here for months without incident. I almost convinced myself it was a child’s imagination. Then I heard it.

Click. The unmistakable sound of my parents’ bedroom door, the one that always stuck, being forced open. Then footsteps, heavy and deliberate, padding down the hallway and descending the stairs. I lay frozen, listening to the rhythm. It wasn’t my father’s step, nor my mother’s. It was too slow, too measured, like someone was counting each stair.

I had to know. I crept out of my room, my own feet silent. The hallway was dark, but the stairs were lit by a faint glow from the kitchen below. I inched down, my heart pounding.

The kitchen was empty. But on the refrigerator, where we posted our weekly schedule, there was a sticky note. In a child’s handwriting, it read: ‘We’re playing hide and seek. You’re it.’

The note wasn’t there before. I don’t know what made me turn around, but I did. At the top of the stairs, a small silhouette stood, barely visible in the gloom. It tilted its head, and then it descended, one step at a time, never taking its eyes off me.

I backed away, but my foot hit a chair, and I stumbled. When I looked up, the silhouette was gone. But I felt a cold breath on my neck, and a voice, tiny and childish, whispered in my ear: ‘Ready or not, here I come.’

I didn’t sleep again that night. Or the next. Every night, I hear the click of my parents’ door, and I find new sticky notes: ‘You can’t hide forever.’ ‘I know where you sleep.’ ‘Your brother is a good hider.’

But the worst was this morning. I went to the kitchen to make coffee, and there was a new note, stuck to the fridge. It was a drawing of our house, with little stick figures in the windows. And in the window of my brother’s room, a figure with a big smile. I ran to his room, but he was fine, playing with his toys. He looked up and said, ‘Marcus says you’re really good at seeking.’

I haven’t written in my journal since that night. How can I? Every time I try, I hear that whisper, and I see that silhouette on the stairs. I don’t know if they’ll ever leave. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again. All I know is, the sticky notes keep appearing, and the game has only just begun.