My new apartment was supposed to be the start of a new chapter, a dream come true. But it quickly became a waking nightmare. I’m Samantha, 35, and this is the chilling story of how my dream apartment turned into a house of horrors.
Two weeks ago, after years of saving, I finally moved into my charming two-bedroom flat in the historic district. The vintage fixtures and balcony overlooking the park were perfect. I twirled around the empty living room, ecstatic. My mom, Christie, looked on with a mix of pride and concern.
“It’s nice, honey, but are you sure?” she asked. “It’s so far from home.”
“I’m 35, Mom,” I reassured her. “It’s time I had my own place.”
Everything seemed perfect. My new apartment was cozy, with a lovely reading nook and a budding balcony garden. Mornings were blissful—until things took a bizarre turn.
Front view of an apartment building on a misty evening | Source: Midjourney
One morning, as I was leaving for work, I found a crumpled note on my front door: “Move out or you’ll regret it.” I hoped it was a sick joke or a wrong address, but it was only the beginning.
The threats continued: “This apartment will harm you. Get out before it’s too late.” The handwriting varied, but the message was always menacing.
One evening, as I unlocked the door, I braced myself for another note. Instead, I was greeted by my cozy living room, but the balcony held a dead pigeon—my second that week. My phone buzzed: a text from Mom. “How’s the new place? Everything okay?”
I hesitated, then replied, “Everything’s great! Just getting settled in. Talk soon!” I didn’t want to worry her, but the notes and dead birds were unnerving.
Obsessed with the mystery, I installed hidden cameras around the apartment. One night, while reviewing the footage, I saw a figure approaching my door. As the person turned, my blood ran cold. It was my own mother.
I called her the next morning, trying to sound casual. “Want to come over for coffee?”
“Of course!” she chirped. “I’ll bring your favorite muffins.”
An hour later, as we sat at the kitchen table, I confronted her. “Mom, I’ve been finding threatening notes. I set up cameras and saw you leaving them. Why?”
Her face went pale. She broke into tears. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. I didn’t know how else to get you to come back. I miss you so much.”
My heart ached. “Mom, why didn’t you just talk to me?”
She sobbed, “I didn’t want to burden you. I thought if I scared you a little, you’d come back.”
I took her hand. “Your feelings aren’t silly, but this wasn’t the way to handle it.”
We talked it through. The mystery of the dead pigeons remained until I spotted Ginger, the neighbor’s tabby cat, carrying a limp bird. The cat was the real culprit behind the unfortunate gifts.
Despite everything, I laughed. Mom joined in, and for a moment, it felt like old times. We had a long way to go, but the experience taught me the importance of open communication. Even those who love us can make mistakes, and sometimes the scariest things are just cries for help.
