Jacob Thorn had never been much of a writer. His days as an accountant were filled with numbers, not words, and he preferred it that way. Writing required creativity, something Jacob had always assumed he lacked. But on an unremarkable Tuesday morning, he found the journal.
It was tucked under his bed, hidden beneath a layer of dust as if it had been there for years. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, with no title or markings to hint at its contents.
Curious, Jacob opened it.
The handwriting on the first page was unmistakably his—precise and methodical, each letter formed with the same practiced efficiency he used in his ledgers. But Jacob didn't remember ever owning a journal, much less writing in one.
The first entry was dated two nights ago.
"A young woman with red hair. 12:34 AM. She won't scream; she'll be too surprised. The alley behind Grayson's Pub will be quiet, just the sound of her heels clicking against the pavement. She'll clutch her bag tightly, but it won't matter. The knife will find its mark, right beneath her ribs. Her eyes will go wide, and then the light will leave them."
Jacob stared at the words, his stomach twisting into knots. His pulse thundered in his ears. He didn't remember writing this. He couldn't have written this.
It was just a story, he told himself. A bizarre, morbid dream he must have scribbled down in his sleep. He slammed the journal shut and shoved it back under the bed, determined to forget it.
But that evening, as he scrolled through his phone, a news alert stopped him cold.
"BREAKING: Young woman found dead in alley behind Grayson's Pub. Authorities confirm fatal stabbing."
Jacob's heart stopped. The victim was described as a red-haired woman in her twenties. The details matched the journal's entry perfectly.
The next morning, Jacob couldn't resist. He pulled the journal from its hiding spot, dreading what he might find.
The next entry chilled him to his core:
"Tonight. A man in his forties. 11:16 PM. He'll leave the office late, tired from a long day. He'll take the shortcut through Franklin Park, the one he's used a hundred times before. He won't notice the figure in the shadows until it's too late. A single strike to the throat. Clean. Silent."
Jacob slammed the journal shut again, his hands shaking. He wasn't a killer. He'd never hurt anyone in his life. But the journal's first entry had come true, and he couldn't ignore the horrifying possibility that this one might as well.
He paced his apartment, debating what to do. Should he warn the police? Tell them what he'd read? But how could he explain the journal without incriminating himself? Who would believe him?
That night, he found himself in Franklin Park at 11:00 PM, hiding behind a row of hedges. He didn't know what he was doing there—he just knew he couldn't sit idly by.
At 11:16 PM, a man in a suit walked down the path, his briefcase swinging at his side. Jacob's breath caught as he saw movement in the shadows.
A figure lunged at the man, knife gleaming in the faint moonlight. Without thinking, Jacob rushed forward, tackling the assailant to the ground. The knife clattered to the pavement.
The police arrived minutes later, arresting the would-be killer. Jacob was hailed as a hero, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong.
When he returned home, the journal was waiting for him on his kitchen table, open to a new page.
"He thinks he can change the story. He's wrong."
In the weeks that followed, Jacob tried everything to destroy the journal. He burned it, drowned it, and even buried it in the woods, but it always reappeared—pristine and untouched, waiting for him.
The entries became more personal, describing not just the murders but Jacob's own thoughts and fears. It began to taunt him, accusing him of crimes he hadn't committed. Or had he?
His memories grew fragmented. Nights became blurs, empty stretches of time he couldn't account for. He woke up with dirt under his nails, scratches on his arms, and the faint metallic scent of blood clinging to his clothes.
The journal's entries were no longer warnings. They were confessions.
"Last night. A woman in a blue dress. 1:45 AM. She begged for her life, but the knife was already in her hand. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my choice. It was hers. It was always hers."
Jacob stared at the words, bile rising in his throat. He couldn't remember what he'd done the night before, but he felt the weight of it in his bones.
He couldn't trust himself anymore.
One final entry appeared in the journal:
"Tomorrow. The author. Midnight. The story ends."
Jacob didn't leave his apartment the next day. He barricaded the doors and windows, clutching the journal as if it might offer some answers. But the pages remained blank, waiting.
At midnight, a knock echoed through the apartment. Jacob didn't move, his breath shallow and uneven.
The knock came again, louder this time.
"Who's there?" he whispered.
The door creaked open on its own, revealing a figure in the hallway. It was Jacob.
The figure stepped forward, holding the journal in its hand.
"It's time to finish the story," it said, its voice an exact mirror of his own.
The last thing Jacob saw was his own reflection, smiling coldly as it closed the journal.
A police officer stumbled upon the journal while investigating a string of unsolved murders. The first entry was dated two days prior.
In a neat, familiar handwriting, it read:
"6:15 PM: Find the journal."