Dear Diary

Page 97

Dear Diary,

Today is a very special day. It's a day of endings and strange feelings. Today is the last day I'll spend in this house—the only one I've ever known. I’ve lived here for eight years. It feels strange that tomorrow we’re leaving.

I overheard Mom and Dad arguing again today. Mom doesn't want to move to the new house. She kept saying things like, "The murder that happened there is too horrifying," and "The house is full of bad memories, and the energy there is all wrong."

Dad said that we didn’t have a choice, that with his pay cut, we had to move somewhere cheaper, and the price of the new house was ridiculously low because of what happened there.

I don’t understand. Why would a house be so cheap because of a murder? It doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

Tomorrow we’ll see.

Goodnight, Diary.

Page 98

Dear Diary,

We arrived at the new house today. It's... incredible.

Three stories, old wooden floors that creak with every step. There's even a basement, a huge one. And there’s an overgrown lake just a hundred meters from the house. The place is surrounded by trees, silent and calm, like it hasn’t seen a soul in decades.

The house is enormous. The rooms stretch on endlessly, some with old furniture, some with nothing but dust and cobwebs. I’ve checked almost every room except one. Mom said I should never go near that room. She said something about it being "off-limits."

There’s something strange about that door. It's locked, but I could feel its pull—the way it seemed to draw me in. The handle was tarnished, the wood weathered, and there was a dark stain near the bottom of the door, something brown, like old rust or… blood.

It’s getting late. It’s 10 PM, and there’s no school tomorrow because of the summer break. Once Mom and Dad go to bed, I’m going to see what’s behind that door. There’s nothing there. Probably just an old closet or something. I’m sure of it.

That was the last page Noman ever wrote in his diary.

Later that night, around midnight, his parents heard a faint thud from the floor below. They rushed downstairs and found the door to the forbidden room wide open.

And Noman was dead.

Case File #3076

Detective: John Flake

Findings:

The only thing discovered at the scene was a diary—Noman Storm's.

It seems Noman had been planning to explore the forbidden room that very night. His last entry reveals his intent, but he never made it out alive.

His body was found on the floor in that same room, contorted in a grotesque, unnatural pose, a pool of blood around him. His eyes were wide open, locked onto a corner of the room.

His face was frozen in an expression of sheer terror, as if he had seen something horrifying just before his life was ripped away.

As I dug deeper into the case, I uncovered a chilling history of the house. Years ago, another boy—much like Noman—had been murdered in this same room. The boy’s father, a sick and twisted man, had tortured him, sexually assaulted him, and then dismembered his body. Afterward, the father killed himself.

But there’s a detail in the file that’s been bothering me.

The boy’s remains were never fully recovered.

According to the report, part of his body… was missing.

There are old legends that claim the souls of children who die violently don’t realize they’ve passed on. They remain trapped between worlds, wandering the places where they died, seeking warmth, life, or anything to hold onto.

The air in that room is thick with cold, almost as if the temperature has been artificially lowered.

Every breath feels like I’m inhaling ice.

I’m writing this from the room itself, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. My skin crawls. The hairs on my neck stand up.

I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

It’s... too quiet. Too still.

I’m beginning to see shadows that weren’t there before. Faint, darting figures in the corner of my eye. I know it’s just my mind playing tricks, but… I can’t shake this feeling.

I swear I felt something brush against my shoulder.

I think I’m—

The report ends there.

The Detective’s Final Hours

The next morning, they found Detective John Flake’s body in the same room. Just like Noman, his face was twisted in a frozen expression of fear.

He had died in the exact same manner—eyes wide open, his body surrounded by a pool of blood. There were no signs of struggle, no defensive wounds. His hands were clasped tightly around his throat, as if he had tried to scream.

On the back of his final report, written in fresh blood, were the words:

"Page 99"