It was one of those lazy Saturday mornings when I stumbled upon the garage sale. The driveway was cluttered with forgotten treasures — vinyl records, chipped china, and boxes of knickknacks that looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades. That’s when I saw it: a brass lamp, old and dust-caked, its shade slightly torn. It looked like something straight out of an antique shop, mysterious but charming.

The man running the sale, a wiry fellow in his sixties, caught me examining it. “You sure you want that?” he asked, his tone oddly serious. “That lamp’s got history. Some say it’s cursed.”

I laughed, assuming it was just a sales gimmick. “Well,” I said, handing him two crumpled dollar bills, “I’ll take my chances.” He gave me a look I couldn’t quite read — part warning, part relief — and wrapped it in old newspaper before I carried it home.

That night, I placed the lamp on my nightstand and switched it on. The light flickered weakly before stabilizing into a warm glow. For a while, it was peaceful. I read a few chapters of my book, scrolled through my phone, and eventually drifted off to sleep with the lamp still humming softly beside me.

Around midnight, a crash jolted me awake. My cat, Miso, had knocked the lamp off the table. Muttering, I got up to inspect it. The bulb was fine, but when I picked the lamp up, I heard something rattle inside — like a coin trapped in metal. Curious, I grabbed a screwdriver and pried open the bottom.

What I found wasn’t money or jewelry. It was a tiny, folded piece of yellowed paper wedged deep inside the base. My pulse quickened as I unfolded it. The handwriting was shaky but clear:

“Check under your bed.”

I froze. The room suddenly felt smaller, the shadows thicker. I live alone — no roommates, no visitors, no one who could have planted that note. I told myself it was probably an old prank. Maybe someone’s joke from years ago. Still, I couldn’t shake the chill crawling up my spine.

I hesitated for several minutes, staring at the edge of the bed. Finally, curiosity won over fear. I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and knelt down.

Dust. Shoes. An old storage box. Nothing out of the ordinary — until I saw it.

A small indentation in the carpet, as if something heavy had been sitting there for a long time. And beside it, a faint, greasy handprint.

I backed away instantly, my heart thudding. Miso hissed and darted out of the room. Every instinct told me to leave, but I forced myself to check again. When I lifted the box to move it aside, something else slid into view — another note, this one newer. The handwriting was the same.

“Too late.”

That was all it said.

I don’t remember grabbing my keys, but I must have, because the next thing I knew, I was in my car, parked down the street, calling the police with trembling hands. They found nothing in the apartment. No intruder, no signs of forced entry, no explanation.

I never went back for that lamp.

Sometimes, late at night, I still wonder if the man at the garage sale was relieved because he’d finally passed it on — or because he knew it always finds its way back.