Help me

At the bottom of a box I pulled out of my basement, there was a square piece of paper with the words "HEY! PLEASE ANSWER!" written on it. I can't imagine how long it had been there; I'd put those boxes in the basement right after I moved into the house. I didn't even think about it until the next morning, when I took out the coffee maker to empty the grounds, I found a soggy note: "PLEASE ANSWER! PLEASE HELP!" I figured whoever was trying to pull this pointless prank must have put it there, because the note wasn't in the coffee maker when I poured the coffee in.

That wasn't the last note I found: another was under my mousepad, another was in my computer case when I opened it to install new RAM, a third was in a roll of toilet paper, and a fourth was in the disc drive of my iPod. I found them in places no one would even think to look, let alone leave a note in.

But I kept finding these pieces of paper—each time asking for help and a response. Finally, when I was getting fed up with it all, the stupid idea occurred to me to respond to the request on another note I found in the dishwasher (just after using it; the note, however, was dry). I wrote, "Hello. I'm replying. Explain what's going on?" on the back and slid the note through a crack in the bathtub. As soon as I left the bathroom, another note caught my eye: it was in a soda on the living room table.

I carefully pulled it out and read, "THANK YOU!" and in larger letters, "I'M TRAPPED."

I waved it around a bit to let it dry, and then wrote another reply on the back: "Where exactly? "How do you send me notes?" I couldn't think of a better idea than to simply toss the piece of paper behind the couch. I waited for a reply, but by the end of the day I hadn't found another note.

The next day, while sorting through my mail, I received a reply in a note that I found among the envelopes: "IN THE SECOND DIMENSION. UNDER YOU." I quickly wrote on the back, "Whoever you are, your prank is idiotic. Stop it already," and threw it on the ground; the note was quickly blown away by the wind.

The next note was written in the same ugly capital letters, but this time there was more text and the last sentence was written more tightly to fit everything on one piece of paper. It must have been an excerpt from an encyclopedia or a brochure: "THE FIRST DIMENSION IS A DEFINITE POINT IN SPACE. THE SECOND DIMENSION (this was underlined) IS EVERYTHING THAT HAS WIDTH AND HEIGHT, AND THE THIRD ALSO HAS LENGTH. THE FOURTH DIMENSION HAS TIME, AND THE FIFTH DIMENSION HAS THE PAST, THE PERIOD REMAINING IN TIME-SPACE." The rest of the text was too small to read. I rolled my eyes and wrote a reply: "How can you read if you're in the second dimension? How do you even exist?" I slid the note into the toaster.

I received the reply the next morning, before I took a shower. "WRITING IS TWO-DIMENSIONAL. VISION IS TWO TWO-DIMENSIONAL PICTURES SUPERIMPOSED ON EACH OTHER."

 This didn't explain how I was supposed to "save" this man, which I stated in my reply and flushed down the toilet.

"MAKE ME 3D"—that was all that was written on the new note I found in a chocolate bar wrapper a little later. I couldn't figure out how the idiot had stuffed it into the sealed package, but at that moment I decided to play along: maybe it was some kind of TV show? "How?" I wrote on the back. I remembered exactly where I tucked the piece of paper because I hadn't written anything since then. I tucked it into the space between the mirror and its wooden back. A year and a half had passed, and I still hadn't received a reply.

One morning, getting ready for work, I went into my room to tie my tie in front of the mirror. In my reflection, I spotted a square on the opposite wall, but when I turned around, I saw nothing. I turned back to the mirror, thinking the note must have fallen to the floor, but in the reflection, it was still there. I touched the surface of the mirror, thinking it was some kind of optical illusion, but I was wrong.

I picked up my mirror and, with it, slowly backed toward the opposite wall. Finally, I stopped, pinned between the wall and the mirror, and was able to read the writing on the piece of paper: "MAKE YOURSELF TWO-DIMENSIONAL."

I moved out of that damn house as soon as I could. After staying with my girlfriend for a while, I got rid of the mirror, the toaster, and everything else. My soul always sinks into my boots when I see a perfectly square piece of paper. I still live in fear that one day, when I open a book or look in the inside pocket of my jacket, I'll find a note there. 

Now I constantly check all my things. And I've stopped drinking coffee, too.