The attic door clicked shut behind me as I stepped back into the quiet of the house. The silence felt heavier now, more oppressive. I stood there for a moment, the old diary still tucked under my arm, my mind racing. I couldn't get rid of the uneasy feeling that had crept into my bones. The book felt like it had been waiting for me, like it knew something I didn't.
I glanced at the staircase, half-expecting to see my dad standing at the bottom, ready to ask me what I was doing up there. But the house was still, and the only sound was the faint hum of the old refrigerator downstairs. I descended the stairs slowly, still clutching the diary to my chest, the weight of it pulling me in different directions.
I wasn't sure what to do with it. Part of me wanted to leave it alone, put it back where I found it, and forget about it. But the other part—the part that couldn't shake the eerie pull of that first entry—urged me to open it, to read more. I couldn't ignore the feeling that this book was tied to something bigger, something I didn't understand yet.
I carried the diary to my room and sat on the edge of my bed, the pages still closed in my hands. The room felt colder now, and I wrapped my arms around myself as I glanced at the cover. It was so plain—no title, no markings, just a leather cover that had clearly seen better days. But it wasn't the appearance of the book that was making me hesitate. It was the feeling it gave me, like it was a piece of a puzzle I wasn't ready to solve.
I set the book down on the bed, staring at it for a long moment. The words from the first entry were still lingering in my mind, unsettling and cryptic. "The town is restless again," it had said. "People are disappearing—vanishing without a trace." I couldn't help but think of all the strange rumors I had heard growing up, things people whispered about late at night when they thought no one was listening. Stories of strange occurrences in the woods. Tales of missing people, gone without explanation.
But these were just stories, right? Nothing more than idle gossip, the kind of things that people talked about when they were bored or trying to scare each other. Still, something about the way the diary had described it made me think there was more to it than that.
I reached for the book and opened it again. This time, I didn't hesitate. I turned the pages slowly, careful not to damage them, my eyes scanning the faded words. The second entry wasn't too far from the first, and it felt like it was pulling me deeper into the past. The handwriting was the same—neat, almost too perfect, like the author had known their words would last.
May 8th, 1924.
It's worse than I thought. People are starting to panic. There are more disappearances—four more this time. All from different parts of town. No one knows what to make of it. Some are saying it's the work of a serial killer, but the bodies have never been found. There are no clues, no signs of a struggle. Just empty homes and empty streets.
The sheriff is losing control. He's ordered a curfew. No one is allowed out after dark. But even that won't stop whatever is happening here. People are starting to get nervous. Some say they hear things at night—footsteps in the alleys, whispering voices in the dark. Some of the older folks claim it's the town's curse, that it's been happening for generations. They say the land here is cursed, that the woods are haunted by something evil. I don't believe in curses, but there's something off about this place. Something that doesn't sit right.
I talked to a few people today. They said they've seen figures moving in the woods. They said they hear voices calling out to them, whispering their names. I don't know what to think. But I can't ignore it. I have to find out what's going on. I have to understand why this is happening.
I've heard rumors about the old building at the edge of town. They say it's the source of everything. Some people believe it's been standing there for centuries, its foundation built on something dark. Others say it's just an old, abandoned structure. But I think it's more than that. I can feel it, deep down. There's something there, something waiting.
I stopped reading, my eyes glued to the page. The words seemed to echo in my mind, the sense of dread they carried seeping into me. More disappearances. More people vanishing without a trace. The sheriff losing control. And then, the mention of the building at the edge of town.
The building.
I couldn't remember the last time I had even thought about it. I knew about it, of course—everyone in town did. It was an old structure, abandoned for as long as anyone could remember. I'd never seen it up close, but the stories surrounding it had always made me stay far away. The building was one of those places that people only mentioned in hushed tones, like speaking its name aloud would bring some kind of bad luck.
But this? This was something else.
I reread the entry, absorbing every word, feeling the weight of the writer's words press down on me. The part about the voices calling out, the figures in the woods—something about it all seemed so real. It wasn't just a story or a rumor. It felt like a warning.
I closed the book, my heart pounding in my chest. The room felt smaller now, the air heavier, like the walls were closing in on me. I couldn't explain it, but I could feel it—the pull of the town's past, the connection to whatever was happening now.
I had to know more. There was something in these pages, something that could explain everything. But at the same time, I didn't know if I was ready to find out. It was one thing to read about these things, but another to face them head-on.
I placed the diary down on my desk, my fingers lingering on the cover for a moment before I stood up. My mind was racing with questions, with fear, with curiosity. What had really happened to the people who had disappeared? Was there a connection between the strange events of the past and the things happening in the town now? And what about the building?
The answers were out there, but I didn't know if I was prepared to find them. Part of me wanted to turn away from it all, to ignore the whispers in the pages and leave the past buried where it belonged. But another part of me, the part that couldn't stop thinking about the words in the diary, knew that I couldn't walk away. I had already opened the door, and now there was no turning back.
Why had I found the diary? Was it just by chance, or was it something more? I didn't know yet, but I was starting to think that the answers lay in the pages I had yet to read.
And I was beginning to wonder if the story was already unfolding around me.