The Sugar Wrappers

The thing about being a forensic accountant is that you learn to notice the little discrepancies—the numbers that don’t add up, the receipts that don’t match. I guess that’s why the candy wrappers bothered me so much. They weren’t mine. I know, it sounds crazy, but I’ve always been meticulous about my snacking habits. I buy the same brand of peppermint patties every week, and I always crush the wrappers into a tight ball before tossing them into the bin. But these wrappers—they were for some obscure brand of licorice I’ve never even seen in stores, and they were left flat, almost deliberately, on my kitchen counter, right next to the toaster.

I’ve been living alone in this converted warehouse loft for three years. The brick walls and exposed pipes give it a certain charm, but the layout is open—no real privacy. The previous tenant was a performance artist who supposedly died in a fire, but the landlord said it was just a small blaze in the kitchen, quickly contained. He also mentioned the guy’s name was Markus, and that he had a thing for collecting vintage candy scales. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But the wrappers started appearing about two weeks ago, and my room, as always, is a disaster. Papers everywhere, dirty laundry, empty coffee cups. I’m a clutter bug, but I always know where things are—or should be. The wrappers were a violation of that unspoken order.

At first, I wrote it off as a prank by one of my coworkers. They know I’m a neat-freak at the office, so they’d find it hilarious to mess with my home. But the wrappers kept coming, and they started to appear in my bedroom. Once, I found one tucked under my pillow. That’s when the taps started. The first time, I was half-asleep on my couch, and I felt two distinct taps on my right shoulder. I turned, expecting someone there, but the loft was empty. The air smelled faintly of burnt sugar. Then it happened again, a few days later, when I was brushing my teeth. This time, the taps were harder, almost impatient, and I spun around to face nothing. My reflection in the mirror looked pale, my eyes wide. I told myself it was just my anxiety acting up.

I decided to clean my room that weekend. I couldn’t focus on anything else—every stray wrapper on the street caught my eye, every crinkle of a bag made me flinch. I started in the kitchen, wiping down the counters, and I noticed a faint, sticky residue near the toaster. I scrubbed it, but the smell of burnt sugar lingered. Then I moved to the bedroom. I gathered the dirty clothes, the old magazines, and the scattered receipts. As I was sorting through a pile of papers on my nightstand, I found a receipt from a convenience store I’ve never been to. It was dated for that very day, and the time was 3:33 AM. The items listed: one bag of licorice twists, one bottle of root beer, and a pack of matches. My blood ran cold. I hadn’t slept well in days, and I knew I hadn’t gone out at that hour.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in bed, T.V. playing softly, but my eyes kept drifting to the corner of the room, where the light from the street cast long shadows. I was half-dozing when I heard a crinkling sound, very distinct, like someone unwrapping a candy. My heart hammered. I turned on the lamp, and there, on my pillow, was a fresh licorice wrapper, slightly warm. I jumped up, my pulse roaring, and scanned the room. Nothing. But then I noticed a faint footprint on the dusty floor—small, barefoot, and only one. The toe pointed toward my bed, but the heel was missing, as if the foot had just materialized and vanished.

I had to get out. I grabbed my keys and ran to the elevator, not bothering to put on shoes. The elevator took forever. When it finally arrived and the doors slid open, I saw a figure standing at the back—a tall, thin man in a grey suit, his face obscured by shadow. He held a single licorice twist, and he was chewing slowly, methodically. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge me. He just stared. I slammed the button for the lobby, and the doors closed. I pressed my back against the wall, my lungs burning. The elevator descended, and I braced for the doors to open to anything. But when they did, the car was empty.

I spent the night at a 24-hour diner, nursing a burnt coffee. The next day, I called my landlord, demanding he check the security footage. He grumbled, but agreed. When I came back that evening, exhausted and smelling of stale smoke, he was waiting for me in the hallway, his face ashen. He showed me the footage from the past week. The frames were grainy, but unmistakable—on four separate occasions, at around 3 AM, a figure would appear in my apartment. It would walk to the kitchen, retrieve a candy from a drawer I never knew existed, unwrap it, eat it, and then place the wrapper on the counter. Then it would walk to my bedroom and stand at the foot of my bed, staring at my sleeping form. The figure was tall, wearing a grey suit. And it had no face—just a smooth, blank oval where its features should be.

I packed a bag and moved to a hotel that night. But as I was checking in, I realized I had left my phone charger at the apartment. I steeled myself and drove back, my hands shaking on the wheel. The apartment was dark. I flicked on the lights and saw that the trash can I had so carefully emptied was now overflowing with licorice wrappers—dozens upon dozens, the same brand. And my kitchen drawer was ajar. I walked over, my feet heavy, and pulled it open. Inside, nestled among random rubber bands and old takeout menus, was a single, pristine, antique candy scale—the kind Markus, the previous tenant, allegedly collected. On its tray lay a handwritten note, the ink faded but legible. ‘I’m still here. You just can’t hear me yet.’