I recently moved into my dream apartment, but everything changed when creepy notes started appearing at my door. At first, I shrugged it off as a prank, but the messages grew more disturbing. Then, I found dead pigeons on my balcony—twice in one week. Terrified, I set up hidden cameras to catch whoever was behind it. After a week of sleepless nights, I finally spotted someone approaching my door. My heart pounded as I watched the footage. When the figure turned, I went pale—it was someone I never could have imagined.


My dream apartment turned into a living nightmare when I began receiving threatening notes at my door. At first, I thought it was just a harmless prank, but each note grew more disturbing, and soon, I started finding dead pigeons on my balcony. It happened twice in one week, and I couldn’t ignore the feeling of being watched. My once perfect home, the place I had worked so hard for, suddenly felt suffocating, filled with dread.

Determined to find out who was terrorizing me, I set up hidden cameras. For days, I lived on edge, unable to sleep, constantly checking the footage. My heart raced every time I approached my door, wondering if another note would be waiting. Then, one night, I finally caught a figure approaching. As I leaned in closer, the blood drained from my face. The person leaving the notes wasn’t a stranger. It was my mother.

I couldn’t believe it. Why would she do this? The next day, I invited her over and confronted her with the footage. She broke down in tears, confessing that she had been leaving the notes out of desperation. She missed me, felt abandoned since I moved, and thought that scaring me would make me come back home. Her loneliness had driven her to these extreme measures.

I was in shock. My mother, the person I trusted the most, had been behind my growing paranoia. But as we sat there talking, I realized how deeply she had been struggling with me moving away. She felt lost without me, and though her actions were wrong, they were born from a place of fear and pain. I promised her we would stay close, but we needed to talk openly from now on, not resort to these drastic measures.

Just when I thought the mystery was solved, I remembered the dead pigeons. Confused, I asked her about them, but she knew nothing. It wasn’t until I glanced at my balcony during our conversation that I saw Ginger, the neighbor’s tabby cat, trotting by with a bird in his mouth. The pigeons weren’t part of the threat—they were just gifts from a well-meaning, if morbid, cat.

Relieved and exhausted, I sat with my mom, laughing at the absurdity of it all. In the end, this horrifying experience reminded me of how complicated love can be. Sometimes, those who love us the most can hurt us in ways we never expect, but it also showed me that love, even when misguided, can always find a way back if we’re willing to face the truth together.


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