Tampered Personal Items

When I first started my internship, I was excited to prove myself, eager to learn the ropes. The company was reputable, and the office had a professional atmosphere—at least during the day. It wasn’t until I began staying late, trying to catch up on projects, that things started to feel… off. It began innocently enough. A pen missing here, a notebook gone there. I didn’t think much of it at first. Interns are always running around the office, so it was easy to assume I misplaced something or someone else borrowed it. But then my things started reappearing in strange places. The first real sign that something was wrong came when I found my phone charger tucked inside one of the filing cabinets in the supply room. I had no idea how it ended up there, but it wasn’t until I uncoiled the charger that I saw it—tucked inside was a small piece of paper with the words You’re always so focused, aren’t you? scrawled in messy handwriting. My stomach dropped. Who would leave me a note like this? I brushed it off as a prank, probably from one of the other interns. But the next day, I found my keychain hidden behind the copier, with another note inside my coat pocket. This one read, How’s the coffee today? The weird part? I’d just been in the break room minutes before, making myself a cup. It was unsettling, but I still didn’t think much of it—until I reviewed the footage from the desk camera I’d set up as a security precaution. I had always been paranoid about leaving my personal belongings at the office, so I thought the camera would help keep things safe. But what I saw that night made my skin crawl. The janitor. He was going through my desk, opening drawers, and carefully placing something inside. He wasn’t hurried or worried about being caught. In fact, he seemed calm, almost… comfortable, like this was something he’d done many times before. I felt sick watching it. He was in my space, rifling through my things, leaving those creepy notes. But why? What did he want? The next day, I confronted him. I couldn’t stay silent any longer. I caught him when he was cleaning near my desk, standing there with his mop, his face expressionless. “Why are you going through my stuff?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. He looked at me, his eyes dull, and for a second, I thought he might deny it, but instead, he just shrugged. “You’ve got interesting things,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Leave my things alone,” I snapped, my voice shaking. He smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him smile, and it was far from reassuring. “You don’t like the notes?” he asked, still watching me with that unsettling expression. I didn’t answer. I just walked away, trying to shake off the fear building inside me. But after that confrontation, things got worse. The notes didn’t stop—they escalated. The next one was tucked into my coat pocket again, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t playful or teasing. It simply said, I know where you park. My hands trembled as I read it. How did he know where I parked? Was he following me outside the office now? I tried to act normal, but I started checking my surroundings constantly—especially in the parking lot. Every time I left the building, I felt his eyes on me. The fear began to gnaw at me, making it hard to focus on anything else. One evening, after staying late again, I made my way to my car, just wanting to go home. But as I reached for the door handle, I noticed something out of place. A single piece of paper was wedged under the windshield wiper. My heart raced as I pulled it out and read the words: Nice car. Looks even better from the inside. I froze. I rushed to open the door, and sure enough, my car had been rifled through. My glove compartment was open, papers scattered across the seats. And in the center console, another note: It’s comfy in here. The panic hit me hard then. He wasn’t just going through my things at work—he had been in my car, my personal space. What else did he know? Had he been to my apartment? I couldn’t stay silent any longer. I went to HR, but they brushed it off, saying it was probably just a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding? How could they be so dismissive? That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every little noise made me jump. I double-checked the locks on my doors, pulled the blinds tight, and kept my phone by my side, ready to call for help if I heard anything suspicious. The next morning, as I pulled into the office parking lot, I felt a familiar sense of dread. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching me. Sure enough, as I walked into the building, there he was—mopping the lobby floor. He looked up, gave me that same unsettling smile, and said, “Good morning.” I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. The fear had rooted itself so deep in me that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. The final note came a few days later. I found it in my desk drawer, tucked inside my notebook. It simply read: I’ve been inside your home. I felt the blood drain from my face. How? How did he get inside? I checked my locks every night. There was no way. But the note—it was so specific, so confident. He wasn’t just messing with me. He wanted me to know. That was the last straw. I packed up my things, handed in my resignation, and left that office for good. I didn’t care about the internship anymore. I didn’t care about the lost opportunities. I just wanted to feel safe again.