When my aunt died, she left me a house full of post-it notes. The earliest ones, the pen’s ink pale and barely readable, aimed at my uncle. Classics like “Dinner‘s in the fridge,“ economic guidelines such as “Lights out when you leave the room!“ and an angry “If it‘s full just TURN IT ON!“ sticking to the dishwasher.

A year after liver cancer got her husband, my aunt turned the two floors plus basement and attic, set against the backdrop of the woods and housing an interior that would preserve 1983 for decades to come, into a bed and breakfast. The post-its from that era read like “Please never leave this door open (stray cats)“, “No shoes in the living room“ and “Careful shower turns hot FAST.“

I picked the notes up everywhere from window frames to the old phone (“Please contact before abroad calls“). The most recent ones documented my aunt‘s battle against old age forgetfulness: “Stove turned off?“, “Front door locked?“, “Mailbox checked?“

With two garbage bags full I had rid the first floor of the slips. I put the bags in the kitchen and opened the cupboard for a glass to have some water. “Shit.“ Another ten or so, sticking to the walls of the cupboard and the glasses. “No fruit juices in these“, “Big ones ALWAYS behind small ones!“, “I watch you when you sleep.“

The last one was a different handwriting. Among the people who’d stayed here in the bed and breakfast years, there must have been quite a few who thought my aunt had some screws loose, and that’s what people do to the town’s bird man or cat lady. They make fun of you.

As I went upstairs, I spent closer attention to the notes on the bannister and the framed photographs on the wall. “No wet hands, please,“ “Careful steep steps,“ “In the attic.“

The other handwriting. Strong, dark letters and the backside still sticky like a fly trap. A recent one.

My glance went up to the attic hatch as I stepped beneath it. The house was silent. Up there it was, too. Those voices came in from outside, weak echoes.

I screamed and turned around as the doorbell rang. Someone touched my shoulder and I turned around again. An empty floor, attic hatch closed. Of course they were. Idiot. When the bell went a second time, I went downstairs.

It was a neighbor to say sorry for your loss and sorry for this but my car stood in his drive so he couldn’t get out. I said give me a minute and he said “What‘s that?“ as I passed him.

He picked a post-it note from my shoulder. “Your aunt really liked these.“

I nodded. Something cold ran over my back.

“Makes you wonder what this was about,“ the neighbor said. He held it out to me. It was only one word.

Waiting.