"I Found a Journal Buried in My Backyard — I Wish I’d Never Read Page 47"

When I bought the house, I was drawn to the backyard. A wide, oddly quiet stretch of grass lined by trees, with patches of stubborn weeds near the fence. It had charm—rustic, almost storybook. But the quiet had weight, and I’d come to understand why.

It started with the dog. I didn’t have one, but three nights after moving in, a stray showed up at my back door. Mangy, mud-covered, and whimpering. I gave it water. It didn’t drink. Instead, it limped to a patch near the back fence, circled three times, and scratched weakly at the ground before collapsing.

The next morning, it was gone.

But the patch where it scratched looked... disturbed. The soil was loose, like it had been freshly turned. I grabbed a shovel, thinking I’d find a dead raccoon or maybe just trash.

Instead, I found the journal.

It was wrapped in what looked like canvas, tied with twine so old it crumbled in my fingers. The journal itself was leather, brittle and soaked through with moisture. Most of the pages were water-damaged and stained with dark smudges I didn’t want to identify.

It was handwritten, but the penmanship changed. At least five different styles, growing increasingly frantic and chaotic as the pages went on. Names were scratched out. Some pages were in languages I didn’t understand. Others were blank—intentionally, it seemed. Every tenth page was marked in the top corner with a different symbol. A circle. A triangle. A jagged cross. I didn’t know what any of it meant.

I should have put it back. Should have burned it.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t stop reading.

Most of the entries were dated—sort of. The dates weren’t consistent, and some weren’t even real. One page was labeled: “March 0th.” Another: “Friday the 13th, Twice.”

And then I got to page 47.

I almost skipped it. The top was ripped and the ink was faded, but there it was, bold in shaky handwriting:

> “If you’re reading this, stop now. Page 47 is the hinge. Once you see it, you’ll feel it. Like a lid being lifted. A gate creaking open. You won’t be alone anymore.”



I stared at it for a full minute before turning the page.

It was a drawing.

Charcoal or ash, smeared and rough. A tree—my tree. The one in the far corner of my yard with the dead branch that hung like a crooked finger. Only, in the drawing, something was hanging from the tree. No—someone.

Below it was a single sentence:

> “It stands behind you when you sleep.”



I slammed the journal shut and threw it across the room.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

At 3:13 a.m., I woke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open.

I live alone.

I stared into the darkness. Nothing moved. But the air felt different—thicker, colder. My body tensed, every instinct screaming to run, but I couldn’t move. I was locked in place.

Then came the whisper.

Right beside my ear: “You saw the page.”

The lights flickered and went out.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up with the journal in bed beside me. Page 47 was open. The drawing had changed.

Now there were two figures hanging from the tree.

I spent the next day trying to destroy it.

I tore the journal apart. Burned the pages. The fire caught—black smoke curled up—but when the ashes settled, the journal was back on the porch. Clean. Intact. As if I had never touched it.

I called a local historian. She didn’t make it past my driveway. Said the energy was “sick.” Told me to move out immediately. When I tried to follow up, she blocked my number.

I searched public records. Five people had owned the house before me. Three went missing. Two died in their sleep—no cause of death ever determined. In the police files, a photo from the 1990s showed the same journal, recovered from a crawlspace.

The caption read: “See page 47.”

Last night, I heard scratching.

Not from the door. From under the bed.

I didn’t check. I couldn’t. I laid still until sunrise, listening to the slow, deliberate scraping of fingernails against wood. When I finally dared to look, there was nothing there—except for dirt. Fresh dirt. And a single page torn from the journal.

Page 48.

It read:

> “He knows you now. The journal wasn’t buried to be hidden. It was buried to trap him. And you dug him up.”



> “There’s only one way to survive. Bury it again. With blood.”




---

I still have the journal.
I still live here.
But I don’t sleep anymore.
Not because I’m scared.
But because he only moves when I dream.

And last night… I almost fell asleep.