I found a note under my windshield wiper that said “Don’t go home tonight.

 

I should have listened to the first note.

It was sitting beneath my windshield wiper when I walked out of work Tuesday evening.

Just a plain sheet of printer paper, folded once.

No name.

No signature.

No explanation.

Only six words:

DON’T GO HOME TONIGHT. TRUST ME.

I stood there staring at it, wondering if someone had decided to play a joke on me.

Maybe it was a prank from a coworker.

Maybe someone had the wrong car.

Or maybe it was meant to scare me.

Then another thought crossed my mind.

Someone knew where I parked.

That bothered me more than the note itself.

I sat behind the wheel for several minutes, debating whether I was being ridiculous. Eventually, I convinced myself that whoever had left it wanted exactly one thing—to make me nervous.

So I started the car and drove home.

I was about three blocks from my apartment when my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I waited.

“Can you hear me?”

Still nothing.

Then the call ended.

I looked at the screen for a few seconds before putting the phone down.

By the time I reached my apartment complex, I was already feeling foolish for letting the note get to me.

Then I saw my front door.

It was open.

Not wide open.

Just enough to notice.

I stopped the car.

I knew I had locked it that morning. I always lock my door. It's one of those habits I don't even think about anymore.

I didn't go inside.

Instead, I called my landlord.

He lived in the building next door and arrived a few minutes later carrying a flashlight and his spare key.

“Maybe the lock didn't catch,” he said.

“I know I locked it.”

He didn't argue.

We stood outside the apartment for a moment before he unlocked the door completely.

We checked every room.

Nothing appeared to be missing.

My laptop was sitting exactly where I'd left it. The television was still there. My wallet was on the kitchen counter.

Nothing looked disturbed.

Then my landlord walked into the bedroom.

He stopped.

The window was open.

I immediately noticed the screen.

It had been pushed outward.

I live on the third floor.

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.

My landlord called the police.

While we waited, I went back downstairs to get some air.

That's when I saw the second note.

It was tucked beneath my windshield wiper.

This one wasn't printed.

It was handwritten.

Only one sentence:

“I told you not to go home.”

Whatever confidence I'd been pretending to have disappeared immediately.

The police searched the apartment from top to bottom. They checked the window, the balcony, the hallway, and the surrounding area.

They found no one.

There wasn't enough evidence to tell us who had entered the apartment, or even whether anyone had actually stayed inside.

The officers eventually left after taking a report.

I didn't sleep there that night.

I called a friend and stayed at their place instead.

The following morning, my landlord called me.

His voice sounded strange.

“Did you change your Wi-Fi password recently?”

“No. Why?”

There was a pause.

“Because something connected to your router at 3:17 this morning.”

I sat up.

“I wasn't home.”

“I know.”

Then he told me what the router had recorded.

The device name was:

Dad's iPhone.

My father had been dead for six years.

I didn't know what to say.

There was obviously an explanation. Someone could have named their phone that. It could have been some kind of coincidence.

At least, that's what I told myself.

For the next few days, I tried to forget about everything.

Eventually, I went back to my apartment.

That's when I found the package.

It was sitting directly outside my door.

No return address.

No shipping label.

Nothing identifying where it had come from.

Inside was an old photograph.

It was a picture of me and my father from years ago.

I hadn't seen that photograph in a very long time.

I turned it over.

Written across the back was a sentence in handwriting I recognized immediately.

My father's handwriting.

“You were never supposed to find this.”

I stood there holding the photograph for what felt like an eternity.

I don't know who is doing this.

I don't know how they got into my apartment.

I don't know why they know about my father.

And I definitely don't know what I'm supposedly going to find.

But tonight, someone slipped another note underneath my apartment door.

It's still sitting there.

I haven't picked it up.

And for the first time since this started, I'm afraid that maybe the warning wasn't meant to keep me out of my apartment.

Maybe it was meant to keep me away from whatever is waiting inside.