Joel's truck is still there. It feels like a weight pressing against the cabin, heavy and unmoving. I can see him shifting in the driver's seat. He's been sitting there for hours, refusing to leave, like a shadow clinging to the edge of my world. The whispers hiss softly in the background, soothing and sharp all at once. He's trying to trick you. Don't listen to him. I pace the length of the living room, the hammer still in my grip, the calluses on my hands rubbing raw against the handle. The journals are scattered across the floor, their pages splayed open like wounds, the symbols staring back at me with their jagged lines and sharp edges. "He doesn't see what I see." The whispers murmur in agreement, curling around me like a cocoon. A knock at the window startles me. "Adam," Joel says, his voice muffled but clear. "I know you're still in there, man. Let's talk." I ignore him, turning my back to the window and crouching over one of the journals. The symbols seem to writhe on the page, their shapes shifting as I trace them with trembling fingers. "Adam!" Joel's voice is louder now, insistent. "If you're not going to let me in, at least let me help you. Show me what you're looking at." I glance toward the window, my chest tight. His face is pressed close to the glass, his expression equal parts frustration and worry. "What do you mean?" I call back, my voice hoarse. "I mean, you've been looking at these books—these journals. Show me." He gestures toward the cabin. "Hold one up to the window. Let me see." I hesitate, my hand hovering over the nearest journal. The whispers twist in my ears, their voices urgent and sharp. Don't let him see. I grip the journal tightly, my fingers digging into the worn leather cover. Joel won't understand. He'll twist it, dismiss it, try to make me doubt what I know is real. "Adam," Joel says again, his tone softer now. "Just… show me what you're seeing." The words hang in the air, heavy with something I can't quite name. I shuffle toward the window, keeping the journal clutched to my chest. The hammer is still in my other hand, the weight of it grounding me. "I'm not opening the door," I say, my voice shaking. "I'm not asking you to," Joel replies. "Just let me see." I step closer to the window, holding the journal up so the pages face him. The symbols glare back at me, dark and jagged, etched deep into the paper like scars. "There," I say. "Do you see it now?" Joel leans forward, squinting at the pages. His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. "What am I supposed to be looking at?" he asks. I freeze. "The symbols," I say, my voice rising. "The marks, the spells. They're right there!" Joel's frown deepens. He gestures toward the journal. "Adam, all I see are… notes. They're written in your handwriting." "No." The word bursts out of me, sharp and desperate. I shake the journal, as if the motion will make him see what I see. "That's not what it says. Look closer!" Joel steps back, his hands raised in a calming gesture. "Adam, listen to me. There's nothing there—no symbols, no spells. Just notes written in your handwriting. It's plain English, man." He's lying. He has to be lying. I lower the journal, staring down at the pages. The symbols glare back at me, shifting and writhing like they're alive. "See?" the whispers hiss. "He's trying to confuse you. He doesn't see the truth." "You're wrong," I say, my voice trembling. "You're not looking hard enough. You don't understand." Joel sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Adam, you've been holed up in there for God knows how long. You're not eating, you're not sleeping, and you're seeing things that aren't there. Let me in. Let me help you." "I don't need your help!" I snap, my grip tightening on the journal. "I need you to leave!" Joel steps closer to the window, his face etched with concern. "I'm not leaving. Not until you let me help you. Whatever you're dealing with—whatever's going on—it's not real. You're spiraling, man." "It is real," I whisper, but the words feel hollow, even to me. The whispers swell, louder now, their voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus. I stagger back from the window, clutching the journal to my chest. Joel's voice fades into the background, drowned out by the whispers. "It's real," I mutter, repeating the words like a mantra. The whispers coil tighter, their words sharp and urgent. My gaze drifts toward the basement door, the air around it heavy and oppressive. Joel doesn't understand. He can't see what I see. But I'll show him. I'll show everyone. "Adam," Joel's voice cracks, cutting through my thoughts. I glance back to see him standing near the window, his shoulders trembling, his hands pressed to the glass. Tears streak his face, and his voice is raw, barely holding together. "Please," he says, his words trembling. "Please, let me come in. I'm begging you, man. Just… just let me sit with you. That's all. I won't push. I won't ask questions. Just let me be here with you." He wipes at his face, his hands shaking, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. "I can't leave you like this. I can't just… stand out here while you're falling apart." His words hang in the air, cutting through the thick, suffocating silence of the cabin. I watch him for a moment, my chest tightening. Something about the way his voice wavers, the way his hands tremble against the glass, makes me hesitate. But the whispers coil tighter, hissing in my ears. I shake my head, pressing my hands to my temples as Joel's sobs grow louder. "Adam," he whispers again, his voice barely audible now, breaking under the weight of his own despair. "Please."