Notes nosleep

I initially assumed the notes were just a childish prank, which I suppose most people would have. They were written on whatever craps of paper the mysterious culprit could find-grocery receipts, old bills, napkins from takeout meals... you get the idea. They were always scrawled messily in what appeared to be dark blue ink, and rarely exceeded more than ten words. Still, the short messages were always eerie, and never failed to make my skin crawl.

I AM FORGOTTEN.

THE WORLD WILL MOVE ON WITHOUT ME.

GONE.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

LET ME OUT.

It didn't take me long to figure out that the notes couldn't be a prank. The only people living in the towering brick mansion were me and my client, Mrs. Campbell. She was pushing ninety-seven, almost blind, and struggled with osteoporosis, among other health problems. I, a newly-graduated nursing student, had been hired as her live-in caretaker, and it certainly wasn't me writing the notes. It couldn't have been Mrs. Campbell either; the woman's hands were so gnarled she could barely hold a pencil, let alone write with it.

I considered the possibility that it was one of Mrs. Campbell's relatives leaving the notes. She had three children, seven grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren, and they would often stop by and visit. But the notes would appear when it was only Mrs. Campbell and I in the house-and in the strangest places: tucked under my pillow, slipped inside my shoes, caught in the spokes of Mrs. Campbell's wheelchair, and even in the refrigerator. Whoever was leaving the notes had obviously dedicated themselves to this prank, and if it was a relative messing with me, I couldn't imagine them pulling it off for so long without being caught. Mrs. Campbell also had a housekeeper who came three times a week to cook and clean, but it definitely wasn't her either.

I never told Mrs. Campbell about the notes; her health was fragile, and the last thing I wanted to do was put her under unnecessary stress. So I went about my duties: administering medications, driving her to doctor's appointments, turning her over in bed so she wouldn't develop pressure sores, and giving her the best possible care I could offer. She was a very sweet old lady, and although she didn't speak much, I knew she appreciated my presence.

The house, like all old houses, could get a little creepy at night. It was huge; Mrs. Campbell's husband had owned a successful furniture-manufacturing business, and had left his family a fortune when he died. The many rooms would have made it easy for an intruder to hide undetected, which led me to believe there might be some crazy person living in the house and leaving the notes just to mess with us. One day, while Mrs. Campbell was napping, I did a thorough investigation, armed with a knife just in case there really was someone. I found nothing, but the only place I didn't look was the attic. It was sealed off by a heavy padlock, and Mrs. Campbell's eldest son kept the key. He told me nobody was meant to go up there; Christmas decorations, photographs, and boxed-up items were kept in the basement. When I asked the son (Marcus) why, he just shrugged. "After Dad died, Mum got a little paranoid. She insisted the attic be cleared out. Something to do with a door up there."

I raised my eyebrows. "A door?"

"Yeah. A secret door, sealed shut. Apparently, it was originally a closest, though why you'd need one of those in an attic, I have no idea. Anyway, for some reason, it scared Mum, and she wanted nothing to do with that part of the house ever again."

Marcus paused for a moment, then looked me in the eye and said, "Look, don't mention it to Mum, okay? The topic really upsets her whenever it comes up, and that's the last thing she needs right now. She won't be around too much longer, and we want her final years to be as peaceful as possible."

I nodded. "I understand."

Now, as the frequency of the notes escalated, I wondered if they were connected to the mysterious attic.

Six months passed. The notes kept appearing, and I did my best to ignore them. You'd be amazed at how easy it can be to put something out of mind, even when it's completely bizarre and unexplainable. However, the content of the notes was gradually becoming freakier.

IT HURTS.

I CAN FEEL MYSELF DYING.

GOD, SAVE ME!

WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?

KILL ME.

PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY.

Around this time, I began to notice other strange occurrences. Subtle things, like the feeling of being watched at night or rooms suddenly growing cold even when the heat was on. Those were easy enough to ignore. The same couldn't be said for the strange sounds up in the attic.

It sounded like someone walking around, but their gait was odd. Laboured, as if they had trouble moving around. One foot landed with a heavy thud; the other dragged, toe scraping the floor. And they always seemed to walk in circles.

I knew Mrs. Campbell had to hear it too; the footfalls were loud, and while the old woman's eyes had failed her, she had remarkable hearing for someone her age. She never mentioned it to me, but whenever the noises started up when we were in the same room, her withered face would go pale, and fear would fill her cataract-heavy eyes.

One day, I found a note resting in her lap. It had been scribbled messily on a piece of wax paper fished from a recycling bin. The message read I WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN. Mrs. Campbell didn't seem aware of its presence, but she was on edge. "Sometimes, I feel we're not alone in this house," she told me.

My blood ran cold, but I didn't dare let her sense my fear. "You're letting your imagination run wild, Mrs. Campbell."

"I suppose so. But let me tell you something, Paulina. I have lived a long time, and I know things you don't." She reached out a gnarled hand and grabbed my wrist; her grip was surprisingly strong. "Trust me, my dear. There may be something here we cannot see."

At that moment, the footsteps started up. Mrs. Campbell gasped, pitching forward and clutching at her chest. I jumped up in a panic, certain she must be having a heart attack. But then the old lady held up her hand.

"I'm fine, I'm fine! I just need some time to myself."

"But Mrs. Campbell-"

"Please, Paulina. Just go. I'll call for you if I need anything."

I didn't want to leave, but she was freaking me out, so I headed to my room. I added the latest note to my collection, which I'd been keeping in an old shoebox.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I wondered out loud. My voice echoed around the room, which suddenly felt too big for me-or anyone else.

The footsteps grew louder, as if taunting me. I could hear Mrs. Campbell humming to herself in the next room, her wheelchair creaking as she rocked back and forth.

I stood and went into en-suite bathroom, figuring a hot bath might help me calm down a little. Keeping an ear open for Mrs. Campbell, I turned on the taps and, while waiting for the tub to fill, studied my face in the mirror.

I looked tired; I'd been working too hard. There were purplish shadows beneath my bright green eyes, and although I had always been pale, my complexion looked pasty. My pale blonde hair hung poker-straight and boring down my back; I hadn't had time to get it cut, or to style it.

As I gazed at my own face, I spotted something else in the mirror: a yellow post-it note, pasted to the wall behind me. Somehow, I hadn't noticed it before.

"What the hell," I muttered, whipping around and grabbing the tiny piece of paper. It read HELP ME. BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

I shivered. The bath did little to calm my nerves.

That night, after Mrs. Campbell was asleep, I lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling and pondered the situation I'd found myself in. Six months of notes and something in the attic, and I had no answers. I wanted to quit, but I couldn't abandon Mrs. Campbell. I had made a promise to always be there for her, and I'm not the kind of person to break a promise. Especially to a patient.

The next morning, Mrs. Campbell's housekeeper, Betty, came. She, like me, had heard the strange noises in the attic, but as far as I knew, was unaware of the notes-or, at least, wouldn't speak to me about them.

"You don't look like you've been sleeping well, honey," she commented as she scrubbed the kitchen counters.

"I'm okay," I lied. "I guess I've just been working too hard."

I drove down to the pharmacy to pick up a medication refill for Mrs. Campbell; I was only gone for about half an hour, but when I pulled into the sprawling cobblestone driveway, I saw Betty running out, shrieking and red-eyed, tears streaming down her face.

"What's wrong?" I demanded.

"I quit!" she screamed, jumping into her own vehicle and peeling out of there so fast I was surprised the tires didn't burst into flames.

Panicked, I ran inside and found Mrs. Campbell in her room, sobbing. Her long white hair had come undone and spilled down her back in untamed waves. She had torn at her skirt and knocked over the glass of water on her bedside table; sharp, gleaming fragments littered the carpet.

"Mrs. Campbell! What happened?"

She mumbled something unintelligible and pointed to her closet, the door of which stood slightly ajar. With a sick feeling in my gut, the kind when you just know you're about to see something truly awful, I went to investigate.

All of Mrs. Campbell's dresses and skirts had been yanked off their hangers and dropped in a pile on the floor. Scrawled on the wall at the back, in still-wet black ink, were the words IT'S TOO LATE! I'M ALREADY DEAD!

I panicked and called the police; I was convinced we had an intruder. The cops came and found nothing. Mrs. Campbell was hysterical. Betty never returned, nor did she ever call. I suspected her experience went deeper than just the cryptic message in the closet, but who knows?

Of course, I told Marcus about what happened. He was concerned for his mother, of course, and thanked me for taking action. But he was also adamant I forget about it.

"What?" I was incredulous. "Are you serious?"

"Trust me, Paulina."

"Marcus. Something is wrong with this place." After months of silence, I finally told him about the notes and the sounds in the attic.

"Paulina, you're upset over what happened, and probably just stressed. There's nobody leaving notes, and there's no one in the attic."

"You think I'm making this all up."

"No, Paulina. I just think your imagination is getting the better of you."

Frustrated, I hung up on him.

After that, the notes ceased for a while. So did the footsteps in the attic. That should have been a relief, but it wasn't. For it to end so suddenly, without warning... it felt wrong.

On a snowy January night, Mrs. Campbell passed away.

I came in with her nighttime medications and found her stiff and cold in bed. Her heart had simply stopped.

In shock, I called Marcus, then the paramedics. Due to the storm, it would take a while for them to get there, so I was stuck in an empty house with a a dead body. I sat by Mrs. Campbell's side, waiting for help, when I spotted a note on her bedside table.

THE END HAS COME.

"Oh, God," I moaned. "Not now."

The footsteps started up again. They were so loud the ceiling shook. SLIDE-THUMP, SLIDE-THUMP, SLIDE-THUMP, THUMP THUMP THUMP! My head pounded, and suddenly, I was pissed.

I stormed out of my room and charged up the attic stairs; up so close, the sounds were crippling. I pounded on the locked door and screamed, but they didn't stop.

Cursing, I ran back downstairs and out the back door. Wind shrieked in my ears, and flakes of snow sliced at my face as I stormed across the backyard and wrenched open the door to the toolshed. I couldn't explain my rage, but it was terrifying, a rampaging monster intent on spilling blood.

I grabbed an axe and returned to the attic door, swinging at it furiously, relishing the crack of splintering wood. Finally, the door collapsed inward, and I was inside.

The attic was empty, a vacant space of dust and shadows. On the dirty floor lay a another note: PLEASE.

"What?" I shrieked. "What the fuck do you want?"

Then I spotted the other door.

Without any light, it was hard to tell, but I suspected it was sealed shut with rubber cement or plaster. By now, the adrenaline had somewhat worn off, and the axe was heavy, but I managed to swing it four more times and open up a sizeable hole.

After returning downstairs one more time (this time for a flashlight) I squeezed myself through the opening. What I found in there was so shocking my mind shut down and simply refused to believe it.

The room was, indeed, a closet, about five by seven feet. Shut within its confines was the mummified body of a woman. Her flesh had blackened and shrivelled, her long hair stiff as straw. She was curled in the fetal position, her chin resting on the bony points of her knees. Her nose was merely a skeletal hole in the middle of her face; her lips had crumbled away, revealing yellowed, rotting teeth; her eyes were deep black pits, staring up at me with sorrow and agony.

I backed out of there and fled, my mind a frantic whirl. I shut myself in my room and waited there, crying and shaking, until Marcus arrived.

"Paulina? What the hell's the matter?"

"Attic," I gasped. "The attic. There's a b-body. A fucking body, Marcus!" I was hysterical.

He went pale and gripped my shoulders so hard I cried out. "What?"

"B-body! The n-notes. The attic. Oh, my God, oh, my God..."

"Calm down. Go back to your room," Marcus ordered.

I did as he told me, still crying. I kept seeing that dead, withered face, and that final note (PLEASE). I found my shoebox and opened it, only to find all the other notes gone.

With that, something inside me broke. The situation had grown too insane for me to handle. I stopped crying and went silent. I just sat there, dully answering the paramedics' and police's questions. Once the body had been taken away, Marcus approached me and said, "You have one week to get out of here."

I moved in with my sister and found a new job at the local hospital. I never saw that house again, nor did I hear from Marcus or anyone else in Mrs. Campbell's family. I didn't even receive a notice about the funeral.

The case made it into the newspapers, of course; the Campbells were an affluent family, and Mrs. Campbell a highly-respected citizen. All the papers said, however, was that a body had been found in the attic, and although investigators didn't know who it was or how it got there, they considered the death "accidental."

Bullshit.

Of course, I was as confused as the police probably were. But I knew there had been something more sinister at work in the Campbell house. I had lived through it, seen and heard it all myself.

I had collected the notes.

I had seen the fear in Mrs. Campbell's sightless eyes.

I had broken down the sealed door.

After nine years, I still don't know what to make of this. I don't know what became of the house, or of the Campbell family-and honestly, I'd rather not. Looking back at those events would be like opening Pandora's box: unleash long-hidden evils.

So why am I telling my story here, after such a long time?

Well, just a week ago, on the anniversary of Mrs. Campbell's death, an unmarked envelope arrived in the mail. There was no address, no name, only a single stamp.

Inside was a single sheet of lined paper, folded down to the size of a Starburst.

Written in red ink were the words YOU SET ME FREE.

Submitted January 21, 2018 at 06:47AM by CynicHappy http://ift.tt/2DlPnA8 nosleep