Today is Monday, November 25th, and this story is dedicated to all women as we celebrate the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women.
To whoever finds this,
I don’t know your name, but I need you to read this carefully. This letter may be the only thing that saves you.
I’ve lived in this house for six months. It’s small, quiet, tucked away at the edge of town. I thought it would be my sanctuary—a place to heal, to rebuild after everything I’d endured. My ex-husband, Paul, nearly broke me. Nearly. He had a temper that could turn a whisper into a thunderstorm. Words became fists, love became fear. But I escaped. I thought I was free.
Then the letters started.
Whispers on Paper
At first, they were harmless enough. An unsigned note left in my mailbox: “You look beautiful in red.” I chalked it up to a neighbor’s awkward attempt at flirtation. But soon, they became… darker. “You can’t hide forever.” “I know what you did.”
I thought it was Paul, but it couldn’t be. He was locked up. I checked. Twice.
The worst one came two weeks ago. It wasn’t left in my mailbox—it was on my kitchen table. “I’m closer than you think.” The handwriting was mine.
I swear I didn’t write it.
Things escalated after that. Doors I knew I’d locked were suddenly open. Objects moved when I wasn’t looking. One night, I woke up with muddy footprints leading from the front door to my bed.
And then I started seeing her.
The first time, it was just a flash—a reflection in the mirror as I brushed my hair. A woman with hollow eyes and tangled hair standing behind me. I spun around, but there was no one there. After that, she appeared more often. In the window at night, her face pale and pressed against the glass. In the corner of my bedroom, her head tilted as if she were studying me.
I called the police. They found nothing. No footprints, no fingerprints. They suggested therapy.
But I know what I saw.
A Prison of Shadows
The truth came yesterday. I don’t know how else to say it except plainly: I am dead.
Paul didn’t go to prison. He killed me. I didn’t escape that night. I bled out on the kitchen floor. But I can’t remember dying, only running.
And now I’m here. Stuck.
This house isn’t a sanctuary. It’s a cage. A cruel trick of memory, trapping me in the illusion of freedom. I thought I was writing these letters to warn someone, anyone. But now I know the truth.
I was writing them to myself.
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve moved into the house. You’ve started to feel it, haven’t you? The cold breath on the back of your neck. The weight in the shadows. You think you’re being haunted by me, but I’m not the one you need to fear.
Paul is still here. He never left.
I hear him at night, pacing upstairs. I see him watching me through the cracks in the walls. I can’t stop him, but maybe you can.
Please, don’t end up like me.
Run.
Before he decides you’re next.
Sincerely,
Emily
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Meanwhile, don’t miss Confessions in the Dark: A priest’s midnight confessional turns into a nightmare when he’s visited by a mysterious figure with dark knowledge of his sins
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