The Note on the Fridge
Margaret Wilkins woke at half past six, as always. Outside, the sky was still dark, but her internal clock had never failed her in forty years. She pulled on her dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
A slip of paper, held by a ladybird magnet, was stuck to the fridge. Strange—it hadn’t been there last night.
Margaret peeled it off and switched on the light. The handwriting was unfamiliar, shaky, as if written by someone unused to holding a pen.
*”Margaret, I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m your neighbour from across the hall—Flat 47. My name is Vera. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t urgent, but could I borrow some sugar? I’ll return it, I promise. Many thanks. Vera Collins.”*
Margaret frowned. A neighbour in Flat 47? But that was the Carter family’s flat—a couple with two young children. She knew every tenant in the building by heart; she’d been the block’s caretaker for a decade.
The kettle whistled. She set the note aside and began preparing breakfast, but unease settled in her chest. How had Vera gotten into that flat? And why hadn’t she heard about the Carters moving out?
After breakfast, she dressed and stepped into the corridor. Standing outside Flat 47, she listened. Silence. No children’s laughter, no chatter—just the faint hum of a television.
Hesitantly, she pressed the doorbell.
*”Who is it?”* A husky woman’s voice.
*”Margaret Wilkins, from Flat 48. Did you leave a note about sugar?”*
The chain rattled, the door inching open. A wrinkled face and one wary eye peered through the gap.
*”You’re Margaret?”* the woman asked, skeptical.
*”Yes. And you’re Vera Collins?”*
*”That’s right. Come in, please.”*
The chain unhooked, the door swung wide. Margaret stepped inside—and froze. The flat was entirely different. No toys, no bright wallpaper, no family photos. Just sparse, old-fashioned furnishings, clean but achingly dated.
*”Have a seat,”* Vera gestured to the sofa. *”Tea?”*
*”Thank you, I’d love some.”*
Margaret studied her host. Vera looked about seventy, maybe older—silver hair neatly pinned, deep wrinkles framing lively eyes.
*”I’m so sorry for the trouble,”* Vera said, arranging the tea things. *”Ran out of sugar, and these old legs won’t carry me to the shop anymore.”*
*”It’s no trouble. But tell me—where are the Carters? Did they move out?”*
Vera stilled, teacup in hand.
*”The Carters? I don’t know any Carters. I’ve lived here for years.”*
*”How many years?”*
*”Fifteen, at least. Maybe more.”*
A wave of dizziness hit Margaret. *Fifteen years?* Impossible. She’d seen the Carters just last week—the mother pushing a pram while the little boy pedalled his bike beside her.
*”Vera, how did you leave a note on my fridge? My door was locked.”*
The old woman blinked, confused.
*”A note? What note?”*
*”The one I found this morning. About the sugar.”*
*”I didn’t write any note. What on earth are you talking about?”*
Margaret pulled the crumpled paper from her pocket. *”This. Look, your name is right here.”*
Vera took it, fingers tracing the words.
*”Not mine,”* she said at last. *”I didn’t write this. Someone must be playing a trick.”*
Margaret’s head spun. Vera seemed sincere—but then who had written it? And how had it ended up in her kitchen?
*”Wait here,”* she said, standing abruptly. *”I’ll fetch you the sugar. Keep the note—maybe it’ll come back to you.”*
*”You’re very kind.”*
Margaret returned to her flat, mind racing. She scooped sugar into a jar, then headed back.
*”Vera, may I ask—do you remember the Carters? A family, two children? They lived here.”*
Vera shook her head slowly.
*”No, dear. Though… come to think of it, someone *did* live here before. But my memory’s not what it was.”*
*”Do you speak with any other neighbours?”*
*”Hardly any. Everyone’s so busy. Only old Mr. Thompson from downstairs checks in, brings my shopping now and then.”*
Margaret knew Mr. Thompson. He’d lived here since the building opened. He’d have answers.
*”Thank you for the sugar,”* Vera said softly. *”I’ll return it.”*
*”Don’t trouble yourself.”*
Downstairs, she knocked on Mr. Thompson’s door. He answered at once—a spry man in his eighties.
*”Margaret! Come in, come in. Fancy a cuppa?”*
*”No, thank you. Mr. Thompson, who lives in Flat 47?”*
*”Why, Vera Collins, of course. Sweet woman, though poorly these days.”*
*”And the Carters—where are they?”*
He frowned. *”What Carters?”*
*”The family who lived there before. Parents, two kids.”*
Mr. Thompson studied her closely.
*”Margaret, are you feeling all right? There’s never been any Carters in this building. Vera’s lived there twenty years, easy.”*
*”But I *saw* them! Just days ago!”*
*”Might you be mixing them up with someone else? Age does odd things to the mind.”*
Her legs felt weak. Was he right? Had she imagined it all?
*”Mr. Thompson, you said Vera’s unwell. What’s wrong?”*
*”Poor thing’s got dementia. Forgets everything—what she ate, people’s names. I look in on her, fetch her groceries. No family left, you see.”*
Numb, Margaret returned to her flat, staring at the spot where the note had been. The ladybird magnet remained, clinging to the fridge.
All day, she couldn’t focus. A fog filled her mind. Was *she* losing her memory too?
That evening, her son David called.
*”Mum, how are you? Anything new?”*
*”David, be honest—have I been acting strange lately?”*
*”Strange? How?”*
*”Forgetting things? Mixing things up?”*
*”No, Mum, you’re fine. Why?”*
She told him about the note, about Vera. David listened carefully.
*”Maybe Vera wrote it in a confused state?”* he suggested. *”You said she’s got dementia—could’ve forgotten right after.”*
*”But how’d it get into my flat?”*
*”Was the door unlocked? Or did she ask someone to slip it in?”*
His explanation soothed her—a little.
The next morning, she visited Vera again, wanting to check on her.
A stranger answered—a middle-aged man in work clothes.
*”Can I help you?”*
*”I’m here for Vera. I’m a neighbour.”*
*”Ah. Come in, but she’s not well.”*
Inside, Vera lay on the sofa, frail beneath a blanket. Her skin was papery, eyes clouded.
*”Vera, how are you?”* Margaret whispered.
The woman turned her head weakly.
*”Who… who are you?”*
*”Margaret, from next door. I came yesterday.”*
*”Don’t… remember.”*
The man stepped forward.
*”I’m her nephew,”* he said. *”Came from up north when I heard how bad she’d gotten. Taking her home with me tomorrow.”*
Margaret’s throat tightened.
*”Is there anything I can do?”*
*”We’ll manage. But thank you.”*
That evening, she knocked again. No answer. Just silence.
Downstairs, Mr. Thompson confirmed it—Vera had gone.
But the next morning, another note appeared on the fridge.
*”Margaret, please help me. I’m locked in. I’m scared. Come to Flat 47. Vera.”*
This time, she didn’t go. Instead, she called the building manager.
*”There’s no Vera Collins in our records,”* he said, checking his tablet. *”Flat 47 belongs to the Carters, but they moved out last month.”*
*”The Carters!”* Margaret exclaimed. *”I *told* you!”*
The manager shrugged. *”Well, let’s have a look.”*
A locksmith jimmied the door open.
The flat was empty. No furniture, no signs of life—just dust and cobwebsMargaret stared at the empty flat, her hands trembling, as the ladybird magnet in her pocket grew unnaturally warm against her skin.
