Day 12: Something Is Writing Back

Day 1

I woke up on a carpet that smelled like old paper and damp electricity. Yellow walls. Buzzing lights. No windows. No doors that led anywhere meaningful.

I’ve read enough internet horror to know what this is supposed to be, but knowing doesn’t help when you’re here. I don’t remember falling in. I don’t remember leaving anything behind. I just remember walking… and then not.

I found this notebook in my pocket. Spiral-bound. Half-used. My handwriting on the first page—my name, written months ago. I’m going to keep a diary. It’s the only way I know I’m still real.

Day 3

Sleep comes in pieces here. I don’t know how long I’m out when I collapse against the walls, but I wake up exhausted every time.

Food is… inconsistent. Sometimes I find vending machines that hum but don’t light up. Once, a machine dropped a granola bar that tasted like dust and metal, but I didn’t get sick. That feels important.

This morning, I noticed something new. There was writing in the journal that I didn’t remember putting there. Different handwriting. Sharper. Smaller. Like someone trying to save space.

Don’t walk under the flickering lights. They fail before the rooms change.

I don’t remember writing that. But later today, I ignored it.

The lights went out. I ran for a long time.

Day 6

I follow the new notes now. They tell me where to sleep—corners with steady buzzing. They warn me when hallways repeat too often. They tell me when to stop walking and wait.

They’re saving me.

I tested it today. I deliberately turned down a hallway that the notes told me not to. I heard breathing behind me. I didn’t turn around. When I reached a safe room, the journal was heavier in my pocket. Another line had been added.

Please listen. I can’t help if you don’t listen.

The handwriting shook at the end of the sentence.

Day 10

I finally noticed something I wish I hadn’t.

The notes always appear after I sleep. Never while I’m awake. Never while I’m writing. And they know things I shouldn’t. This morning’s entry:

Don’t trust the hum today. It’s copying you.

I laughed when I read it. Then I realized the lights were buzzing in the same rhythm as my breathing.

Day 14

The warnings have changed. They’re not just about rooms anymore.

Don’t stop walking. It’s closer when you stand still.

If you hear your name, keep going.

It’s right behind you. Don’t turn around.

I didn’t write those.

But I followed them. I’m alive because of them. I think.

Sometimes I feel like I’m being guided not away from danger—but around it. Like the notes know exactly how close I can get without being taken.

Tonight, when I stopped to rest, I felt breath on the back of my neck.

The journal burned in my hands. A new sentence bled through the page, hard enough to tear the paper.

RUN.

I did.

Day 19

I don’t sleep anymore. I just close my eyes until I wake up somewhere else.

This morning, the handwriting was messier than ever. Desperate.

I’ve been here longer than you.

I found the notebook first.

You’re doing well. Better than I did.

I dropped the journal. When I picked it up, another line had appeared.

Please don’t leave me here alone.

Day 23

I finally understand.

The journal isn’t helping me survive. It’s training me. Teaching me where to step. When to move. How to last longer than the last person. Because the backrooms don’t let everyone leave. They let someone replace them.

Today’s entry was written in huge, uneven letters, pressing so hard the ink soaked through multiple pages.

I’m stuck in the walls.

I can’t move anymore.

I need a body again.

My handwriting is starting to look like theirs.

Day 24

I woke up with the journal already open. The final entry was written before I opened my eyes.

You’re strong enough now.

You know the rules.

Just stop running.

Let me out. Take my place.

I can hear something breathing behind me.

The lights are steady. The carpet is warm.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep walking. If you find this journal— Don’t read the helpful parts.

And whatever you do, don’t fall asleep holding it.