My new apartment was supposed to be stunning… a new chapter. But it turned into a waking nightmare. I’m Samantha, 35, and this is the chilling story about how the apartment of my dreams turned into a house of horrors…

Two weeks ago, I’d been on top of the world. After years of scrimping and saving, I’d finally landed the apartment of my dreams. A charming two-bedroom flat in the historic district, complete with vintage fixtures and a balcony overlooking the park.

I twirled around the empty living room, my laughter bouncing off the walls. “Can you believe it, Mom? It’s all mine!”

My mom, Christie, stood in the doorway, a tight smile on her face. “It’s… nice, honey. But are you sure about this? It’s so far from home.”

I waved off her concern. “Mom, I’m 35. It’s time I had my own place. Besides, it’s only a 30-minute drive.”

She nodded, but I could see the worry in her eyes. “I know, I know. I just… I’ll miss having you around.”

I gave her a quick hug. “I’ll visit all the time, I promise. Now, help me pick out some curtains for these gorgeous windows!”

“What do you think about this floral pattern?” I asked, holding up a sample as we pored over fabric swatches.

Everything was perfect. My new apartment was a dream come true. Think cozy corners, a little office oasis, even a budding balcony garden. Mornings were a blissful routine with coffee, sunshine, and the promise of a good day.

But then, things took a bizarre turn.

One morning as I was leaving for work, I noticed a crumpled paper stuck to my front door. My hands shook as I peeled it off, revealing the jagged scrawl beneath:

“Move out or you’ll regret it.”

A sick joke, I hoped. A wrong address, maybe?

But a cold dread crept in. It was the start of something sinister. And those menacing notes? They kept coming.

My heart almost skipped a beat when I unlocked my apartment door one evening. Another threatening note.

“This apartment will harm you.”

“Get out before it’s too late.”

The handwriting was always different, but the message was chillingly consistent.

I flicked on the lights, half-expecting to find an intruder.

Instead, I was greeted by the familiar sight of my cozy living room. The reading nook I’d set up by the window. The mini home office in the corner. Everything exactly in place as I’d left it.

With a sigh, I dropped my bag and headed to the balcony. Maybe some fresh air would clear my head, I thought. But as I stepped outside, my breath caught in my throat.

There, in the center of my carefully tended balcony garden, lay a dead pigeon.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, stumbling backward. This wasn’t the first time. It was the second that week.

My phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Mom: “How’s the new place, sweetie? Everything okay?”

I stared at the message, my fingers hovering over the keys. Should I tell her? No, she’d only worry. Besides, what would I say? ‘Hey Mom, someone’s leaving dead birds on my balcony’?

Instead, I typed: “Everything’s great! Just getting settled in. Talk soon!”

As I hit send, I couldn’t help but wonder who was trying to scare me out of my home… And why?

“Whoever you are,” I muttered to the empty air, “why are you doing this to me?”

I found another dead pigeon on my balcony early the next morning. Just lying there, lifeless.

My stomach churned. It felt like a sinister omen. I was terrified beyond words.

Constantly on edge, I was obsessed with checking locks and avoiding the windows. Every creak in the night sent my heart racing.

I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The dead pigeons… the threatening notes were all too much. I reached for my phone, scrolling through apartment listings.

Maybe I should just move? Start over somewhere new?

No! I shook my head, furious with myself for even considering it.

I’d worked too hard for this place. Two years of grueling overtime and sacrificed vacations. I wasn’t going to let some coward with a twisted sense of humor drive me out.

I opened my laptop and started searching for hidden cameras. If someone’s trying to scare me, I’m going to catch them in the act.

As I clicked ‘order’ on a set of tiny, high-tech cameras, a notification popped up on my phone.

It was Mom again: “Just checking in. You’ve been quiet lately. Everything alright?”

I hesitated, then typed back: “Just busy with work. How about lunch this weekend?”

Her reply was almost instant: “Sounds great! I’ll bring your favorite cookies.”

I smiled, feeling a little better. At least I had Mom in my corner. Whatever’s going on, I’ll figure it out. I have to,ÂI thought.

“Bring it on, mystery creep,” I muttered, closing my laptop. “Your days are numbered.”

The cameras arrived two days later.

I spent the evening setting them up, hidden in strategic spots around the apartment. One by the front door, one in the hallway, and of course, one on the balcony, carefully hidden behind a plant.

For the next week, I was a bundle of nerves, constantly checking the footage. Every sound made me jump. Every shadow seemed sinister.

My friends noticed something was off, but I brushed off their concerns.

“You look tired, Sam,” my coworker, Lisa, said over lunch. “Everything okay at home?”

I forced a laugh. “Oh, you know how it is with a new place. Still getting used to all the new noises.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I get it. When I moved into my apartment, I swore it was haunted for the first month.”

If only ghosts were my problem, I thought. At least then I’d know what I was dealing with.

That night, as I was reviewing the day’s footage, something caught my eye. A figure, approaching my door in the darkness.

My heart raced as I leaned closer to the screen. The person turned slightly, and as I caught a glimpse of their face, my stomach dropped and the blood drained from my face.

“NO,” I gasped. “IT CAN’T BE.”

But there was no denying what I was seeing. The person leaving those terrifying notes, the one trying to scare me out of my home, was none other than my own MOTHER.

“MOM??” I choked out, staring at the frozen image on my screen. “Why?”

The next morning, I called my Mom, my voice carefully neutral. “Hey, want to come over for coffee?”

“Of course, sweetie!” she chirped. “I’ll bring those muffins you love.”

An hour later, we were sitting at my kitchen table.

Mom was chattering away about her book club, but I could barely focus on her words. All I could see was the image from last night’s footage, playing on a loop in my mind.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom,” I interrupted. “I need to talk to you about something.”

She paused, her brows furrowing in concern. “What is it, honey? You look pale.”

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

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, Sam! That’s terrible! Have you called the police?”

I shook my head, watching her closely. “No, because… I know who’s been leaving them. I set up hidden cameras.”

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything.

“Why Mom?” I confronted her. “Why would you do this to me?”

The color drained from her face.

For a long moment, she just stared at me, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then, to my shock, she burst into tears.

“I’m so sorry, Sammy,” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “I didn’t know what else to do!”

I sat there, stunned, as Mom poured out her heart.

“Samantha, honey,” Mom cried, “I miss you so much. The house feels like a tomb without you. It’s so quiet. So empty. I know I shouldn’t, but I thought maybe if I scared you a little, you’d come back. I know it’s wrong, but I just… I just miss you so much.”

“I know it was wrong,” she hiccupped, wiping her eyes. “I just… I miss you so much, honey.”

A storm of aching sadness swirled in my chest. “Mom, why didn’t you just talk to me?”

She shook her head, looking ashamed. “You seemed so happy here. I didn’t want to burden you with my silly feelings.”

I reached across the table, taking her hand. “Your feelings aren’t silly, Mom. But this… this wasn’t the way to handle it.”

She nodded, squeezing my hand. “I know. I’m so, so sorry, Sammy. Can you ever forgive me?”

I took a deep breath, meeting her tear-filled eyes. “I can, Mom. But we need to figure out a better way forward. For both of us.”

She nodded eagerly. “Anything, sweetie. I’ll do anything.”

As we talked it out, I felt a weight lifting off my shoulders. The mystery was solved, but then I remembered something.

“Oh, what about the dead pigeons on my balcony?”

Mom looked confused. “Dead pigeons? I don’t know anything about that.”

Just then, a movement caught my eye.

I turned to see Ginger, the neighbor’s tabby cat, casually strolling across my balcony with a limp bird in his mouth. The culprit behind the unfortunate gifts on my balcony was finally revealed.

Despite everything, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I guess that solves that mystery.”

Mom joined in, and for a moment, it felt like old times.

We had a long way to go, but as we sat there, laughing through our tears, I realized that sometimes the scariest things are just cries for help. And love, even when it takes a wrong turn, can find a way to bring us back together.

Moreover, this experience taught me a lasting lesson on the importance of talking things through, even when it’s tough. Because even those who love us can make mistakes.

Here’s another story: Before she passed away, my grandmother feigned deafness to teach her greedy children, who were solely interested in her money, a lasting lesson.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.