A note appeared on my laptop overnight. This wouldn’t necessarily be that big of a deal, as Sarah will occasionally leave me cute little messages before leaving for work. I typically work from home as a struggling freelance journalist, so I keep odd hours.
This wasn’t a note from her though, and after reading it the hair on every part of my body stood on end. In hurried, scratchy lettering it read:
“No one will listen, I have a story for you. Will pay. 11:11pm tonight. 333 12th st. I don’t intend to come again unless I have to.”
I called my wife, and when she answered I asked her point blank if she was playing some kind of prank on me. Pressing her repeatedly. Every time she said she had not left a note, and I finally read it to her. The line went dead silent for more than a few seconds before I asked “You still there?”
“When I left this morning the key bolt was locked…” she paused again, “Call the police, now.”
After hanging up I checked the house. Every window was locked, the sliding patio door was locked, which wasn’t surprising given that we lived on the third floor. The door was left just as Sarah had left it this morning, key bolt locked, deadbolt unlocked. So, I called the police, and then called our landlord. Maybe we’d left the deadbolt unlocked before bed and someone picked their way inside.
The rest of the afternoon was migraine inducing. Our landlord arrived first. He’s an old man, slightly built, late seventies, and a real sweetheart rarely seen in rental housing. He immediately replaced the locks by himself, double-checked the window locks and patio, waving off my attempts to help in any way. He assured me he’d ask around with our neighbors if they saw anything “hinky” as he called it. I believed him.
The police showed up about two hours after my call. They came and went with their notepads, reassuring me they’d do what they could after asking me if anything was missing. There was only the note though. My wallet, keys, phone, TV, and laptop, were all still accounted for. And after they had left I felt as though what they meant was that they’d do hardly anything. I’m not an idiot, they don’t dust for fingerprints for a break-in, and since there was nothing missing, there’s nothing to trace.
As soon as they left, my thoughts returned to the note. Who was it anyway? They must have an idea who I am and what I do, though how was anyone’s guess. Like I said, struggling journalist. I mean, I suppose at some point I could’ve gotten a job as some “listicle” writer for a shitty pop journalism outlet. But I do have my pride, to a fault if I’m honest.
My curiosity started getting the best of me, maybe the police will go to that address, and if they do maybe I can get a good look. Maybe. At any given point, I have one or two major research projects. Right this last week I finished such a project that I’d start shipping manuscripts off to anyone willing to pay by the word. A real tragic and soul-draining expose about the murder of a child in a small town about thirty minutes away.
So I had an opening, and my imagination ran wild. I pulled out a fresh notebook from my desk, taped the note to the top of the page and started scribbling. All the way until Sarah came home from work around 6:30pm.
We ordered pizza, and sat on the couch talking about our mutual long day. That’s when I floated the idea.
“I wonder what the story is. Almost makes me want to see for myself.” I chuckled.
“Yeah if you wanna be stabbed.” She snorted back without missing a beat.
I gave it a few seconds before saying, “Seriously though. What if?”
“Absolutely not.”
In that moment I resolved to go. It’s not worth relitigating the argument that ensued in full. I pointed out that the police would probably be there anyway. She pointed out that I’d be interfering. Eventually though, she agreed to not divorce me if I went with a friend and didn’t interfere, and called when I got there and when I left. I love her for putting up with me.
I immediately sent a text to my buddy Jon who, by happenstance, lived along the way. He’s a coworker of Sarah’s and we had bonded during a company Christmas party shortly after we both moved here, he’s relatively new in town too. Nice guy, if a bit pedestrian, but Sarah insisted I try to meet people instead of being holed up in the apartment all day. Luckily, he agreed to tag along on my little adventure.
At 10:45 I picked up Jon. He hopped into my little sedan and immediately launched into questions.
“So what bar do you wanna go to?” He asked excitedly.
“We’re not going to a bar, we’re going to some creepy guys house.”
“I’m sorry; what?” He asked wide-eyed.
I opened my notebook and let him read the note, and explained the events up to now.
“This is stupid, dude. What happens if this is some violent lunatic?” He said.
I opened my jacket, revealing a telescoping baton that I’d bought some years ago in a shady pawn shop. “Then we defend ourselves.” I said with a smile.
Jon threw up his hands as if to say “fine, go ahead”.
After about ten minutes we arrived at the listed address. An old beatdown and boarded tenement house standing stark among the pale street lights. The time was 11:08 and as we sat in the car sweat started running down my back, and I began to question why we were even here. I texted Sarah.
11:09
“You sure about this man?” Jon asked. “This just feels all sorts of wrong.” We looked toward the building and at the surrounding streets. No cops.
“Maybe it’s a deep throat kind of thing you know?” I suggested nervously as a shiver ran the course of my spine. “Only it’s this insanely creepy house.”
11:10
The lights along the road went out, save for the single one above us in front of the building.
“Dude, I don’t like this at all.” Jon said in a shaky voice.
11:11
I was looking at Jon when his eyes widened and he pointed at the plywood barred entryway. I turned, and saw the board was swinging open as if on unseen hinges, while a soft yellow light shined from the inside.
Without a word, I left the car while Jon did likewise as he was whisper-shouting something at me. I didn’t notice what he was saying as the internal terror pumped me full of adrenaline, my hand firmly gripping the baton as I opened the doorway and crossed the threshold.
Behind me, the door slammed shut, not that I even noticed because in front of me wasn’t a hallway to a tenement house, but a perfect model of a home straight out of a Good Housekeeping magazine page torn from the 80’s.
A door swung open from the kitchen and a genteel looking old man emerged with a tray of teacups, plates, and a pot.
“Glad you found your way. I’m sure you have some questions. First though; tea?”