The Sunday Note

In the autumn of last year, I lived with my mother, Clara, and her husband, Gerald, in a small town called Millbrook, nestled near the edge of a dark forest. We had a routine: I’d call her every weekday morning, but weekends were reserved for family time, and we rarely spoke. That October, something felt off. For two days straight, a persistent thought nagged at me: ‘Call your mother.’ I ignored it, distracted by a weekend of apple picking with my husband and our two kids.

Then came Monday. The morning was crisp and quiet, the kind of stillness that settles over the house before the day begins. I was sipping coffee when my phone buzzed. It was my sister, Naomi. Her voice was tight, controlled, but I heard the tremor underneath. ‘Mom’s in the hospital. She tried to kill herself with Gerald’s hunting rifle, but first she took a handful of sleeping pills. When they didn’t work fast enough, she…’ My world stopped. I dropped the mug, letting it shatter on the floor, as Naomi continued, ‘It happened yesterday. I’m on my way now.’ I hung up, heart pounding, and rushed out the door.

At the hospital, I met Naomi in the waiting room. Gerald was there too, pale and trembling, his eyes red. He handed me a sealed envelope. ‘She left this for you,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘I found it on the kitchen counter.’ I tore it open, my hands shaking. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in Clara’s neat handwriting. It read:

‘Dear Sarah,

I know you’ll find this, and I’m sorry. But I need you to understand why I chose to leave. For months, I’ve been seeing things. At first, it was just out of the corner of my eye—a dark shape moving between the trees, a whisper of something in the wind. I told myself it was my imagination. But then it started appearing in the house. I’d catch it standing at the end of the hallway, its long fingers twitching. It never moved when I looked at it directly, only when I averted my gaze.

Last Sunday, I was in the living room, and I felt it behind me, breathing cold air on my neck. I turned, and it was there, no more than a foot away. Its face was all wrong—eyes too wide, mouth stretched into a grotesque smile. It spoke to me, Sarah. In a voice like gravel and rotting leaves, it said, ‘You can’t escape me.’ I knew then that it would never stop. It was in my mind, in my blood. So I decided to take control myself. I figured if I couldn’t stop it, I’d at least end it on my terms.’

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the note. I looked up at Gerald, who was staring at the floor. Naomi asked, ‘What does it say?’ I handed it to her, and she read, her face growing ashen.

That night, after visiting hours, I drove back to the house to gather some belongings. The house was dark and foreboding, wrapped in the deep shadows of the surrounding pines. I stepped inside, and the air was thick and cold. I felt a presence, just as my mother described. I walked into the living room, where the couch still held a depression from her last moments. That’s when I noticed it—a dark stain on the wooden floor, spreading from beneath the armchair. I knelt, touching it. It was cold, viscous, like black oil, and it smelled of decay. I recoiled, my heart racing.

Suddenly, I heard a voice, faint and distorted, coming from the study. I followed it, my footsteps echoing in the empty hall. The study door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling out. I pushed it open. The room was cluttered with Gerald’s hunting gear and my mother’s books. On the desk lay an open journal. I picked it up, recognizing Clara’s handwriting. It was her diary, filled with days of increasing terror. The last entry was dated that Sunday:

‘It is in the walls. It is in the air. I hear it humming at night, just beyond my ear. Gerald thinks I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. But I know what I see. It wears a coat of shadows, and it has been with me since I was a child. It promised me a long life, but I refuse. I will end it tonight. God forgive me.’

I felt a chill run down my spine as I closed the book. Then, the humming started—low, resonant, from within the walls. It grew louder, more insistent. I turned to flee, but the hallway door slammed shut. I screamed, but no sound came out. The lights flickered and died. In the darkness, I saw it: a figure, tall and gaunt, its face obscured by a hood of darkness, standing at the far end of the corridor. It raised a long, bony finger and pointed at me, and in my mother’s voice, it said, ‘You came back. Good.’

I woke up on the hospital floor, with nurses shaking me awake. They told me I had been found unconscious in the study, bleeding from a small wound on my forehead. They tried to convince me I had a panic attack and probably fell, hitting my head on the desk’s edge. But I knew what I had seen. I still have that journal, and the note my mother left. I carry them with me. Sometimes, late at night, I feel that same presence, watching from the corner of my room. And I hear the humming, faint but unmistakable. I’m writing this now, hoping that by sharing it, I can make it real enough to be dismissed. But deep down, I know: my mother’s nightmare is now mine.