Every Time I Returned to My New Apartment, I Found Notes with Threats — When I Saw Who Was Leaving Them, I Froze

From an Ideal Apartment to a Terrifying Situation: A Disturbing Story of Hidden Fears and Threats

My perfect apartment soon turned into a horrifying scene as I discovered alarming notes, each one more frightening than the last. Learning the truth about who was leaving them changed my life forever.

I’m Samantha, aged 35, sharing how my ideal home became a source of dread. Only two weeks earlier, I was extremely happy. After saving for many years, I had purchased my dream apartment—a lovely two-bedroom unit in a historic district, featuring old-fashioned details and a balcony with a view of the park. I spun in the empty living room, my laughter echoing. “Can you believe it, Mom? It’s all mine!” I yelled, thrilled.

My mother, Christie, watched from the doorway, forcing a smile. “It’s… nice, dear. But are you sure about this? It’s quite far.”

I dismissed her worries. “Mom, I’m 35. It’s time for my own place. It’s just a 30-minute drive.” She nodded, although she looked concerned. “I know, I just… I’ll miss you.”

I quickly embraced her. “I’ll visit often, I promise. Now, let’s choose some curtains for these lovely windows!” I said, showing her a floral curtain sample as we reviewed several choices.

All seemed perfect. My apartment felt like a dream with its snug corners, a small office, and a balcony garden beginning to flower. Mornings were tranquil, filled with coffee, sunlight, and new day excitement. However, things soon changed.

One day, on my way to work, I noticed a crumpled note on my front door. Trembling, I opened it. It read: “Move out or you’ll regret it.”

Initially, I thought it was a bad joke or an error. But as more notes arrived, my anxiety intensified. Each message was more threatening: “This apartment will harm you,” “Leave before it’s too late.” The handwriting varied, but the notes were consistently disturbing.

One night, returning from work, I found yet another note as I unlocked my door. My heart raced as I switched on the lights, fearing an intruder. Yet, everything was untouched—my cozy living space, reading area, and small office.

I sighed and stepped onto the balcony for air. That’s when I saw it: a dead pigeon in my garden. “Oh my God,” I muttered, stepping back in shock. This was the second dead pigeon that week.

My phone vibrated with a text from Mom: “How’s the new place, sweetie? All good?” I stared at the text, debating whether to share about the notes and the dead birds. Deciding against it, I replied, “Everything’s great! Just settling in. Talk soon!” I sent the message, still wondering about the identity of my tormentor.

The following morning, I found another dead pigeon. I was constantly frightened, every small noise unsettling me. I couldn’t sleep and even thought about moving, but I was determined not to be driven away. Instead, I installed hidden cameras.

I set up the cameras two days later—one near the front door, one in the hallway, and another on the balcony, concealed by a plant. Over the next week, I obsessively watched the footage, alarmed by every sound and shadow.

My friends saw how stressed I was. “You look exhausted, Sam,” my colleague Lisa noted. “All okay at home?” I faked a smile. “Just adjusting to the new place,” I replied, wishing I were dealing with ghosts instead.

Then, one evening, reviewing the footage, I saw someone approaching my door. My heart skipped as I zoomed in. The person turned slightly, and my stomach sank. “NO,” I gasped. “IT CAN’T BE.” But it was undeniable—the person leaving the notes was my own mother.

The next day, I called her, trying to sound calm. “Hey, want to come over for coffee?”

“Of course, dear!” she responded cheerfully. “I’ll bring those muffins you like.”

An hour later, we sat at my kitchen table. Mom talked about her book club, but I was distracted. Finally, I had to confront her. “Mom,” I said, my voice unsteady, “we need to talk.”

She looked concerned. “What’s wrong, dear? You seem upset.”

I took a deep breath. “I’ve been getting… threatening notes on my door.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh no, Sam! That’s awful! Have you called the police?”

I shook my head. “No, because… I found out who’s behind them. I installed cameras.” She looked even more shocked, remaining silent.

“Why, Mom?” I asked, breaking down. “Why would you do this?”

She turned pale, struggled to speak, then burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Sammy,” she cried, covering her face. “I didn’t know what else to do!”

I sat stunned as she confessed. “Samantha, I miss you so much. The house feels empty. I thought if I scared you, you might return. It was wrong, but I missed you terribly.”

She continued crying. “I know it was wrong,” she repeated. “I just… I miss you, honey.”

A sadness came over me. “Mom, why didn’t you just talk to me?”

She shook her head, embarrassed. “You seemed so content. I didn’t want to trouble you with my feelings.”

I took her hand. “Your feelings matter, Mom. But this wasn’t the right approach.”

She nodded, gripping my hand. “I know. I’m truly sorry, Sammy. Can we forgive each other?”

I sighed and looked into her teary eyes. “Yes, Mom. But we need to figure out a better way together.”

As we spoke, I felt relieved. The mystery was solved, but then I remembered something. “Oh, what about the dead pigeons?”

She looked puzzled. “Dead pigeons? I don’t know anything about that.”

Just then, Ginger, the neighbor’s cat, sauntered across my balcony with a pigeon in his mouth. The source of those gifts was now clear. Despite everything, I laughed. “Looks like we solved that mystery too.”

Mom chuckled, and for a moment, things felt normal. We had a lot to work through, but as we laughed together, I realized that even when love goes astray, it can still mend broken bonds.

This ordeal taught me a valuable lesson about the importance of open communication, especially since even our loved ones can err.