The Diary of a Dead Girl

I found the diary in the attic of our new home—an old Victorian house nestled at the edge of a sleepy town. It was hidden inside a rusted tin box beneath loose floorboards, the leather cover cracked with age, its pages yellowed and brittle.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. I was bored, alone, and curious. My parents were busy downstairs, arguing again about furniture placement and fixing leaks. So I sat cross-legged under the slanted ceiling and began to read.

The first entry was dated March 13, 1983:

> “I don’t think I’ll ever leave this house. Every window shows the same tree, even though I know they should show different views. I feel like I’m being watched. I told Mother, but she just patted my head and locked my door again.”
— Emily



My heart skipped a beat. This girl—Emily—had lived here, in this very house. And something was wrong. I kept reading.

> “March 16: The man with the hat came again. He only visits at night, always standing in the corner, never blinking. He whispers my name but I never tell him mine. He already knows it.”



Chills crawled up my spine. I looked around the attic. Empty. Still. But a creeping unease coiled in my stomach.

As the entries continued, Emily’s writing grew frantic.

> “March 20: I tried to run. The hallway stretched like rubber. I ran for hours, but my room always finds me again.”



> “March 23: I screamed all night. No one came. I think Mother hears, but she won’t open the door anymore. I think she’s afraid too.”



Something about the diary felt alive, like her fear had soaked into the ink. I should have stopped. But I couldn’t. I felt connected to her. Trapped. Obsessed.

Then came the final entry. The handwriting was barely legible, smudged and trembling.

> “March 27: He said tonight is the night. I heard him in my closet. He said if I write everything down, someone will come. Someone like me. He wants to meet you, you know. He says your name, too. Over and over. He says you’re reading this now.”



My breath caught. I stared at the name at the bottom of the page.

It was mine.

Written in perfect, unmistakable cursive: “For you, Claire.”

My hands trembled. I dropped the diary as if it burned. Had someone played a cruel joke? But how? I had only moved in last week. No one knew me here. The diary was at least forty years old. The ink wasn’t fresh. The dust was thick.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every shadow in my room felt wrong. Every creak of the house echoed louder than it should. At 3:11 a.m., my closet door creaked open slowly, without wind, without reason.

I told myself it was nothing.

Until the whisper came.

Soft. Gentle. Familiar.

> “Claire...”



I froze. My blood turned to ice. It came from inside the closet.

Just like in Emily’s diary.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. My eyes locked on the darkness of the open door. Something shifted inside.

I slammed the closet shut and pushed a chair against it. The next morning, the chair was across the room.

The diary was back in my hands.

A new page had appeared. Blank… except for one line:

> “You can’t leave either.”




---

Since that night, I’ve tried everything.

We moved houses.

I burned the diary.

I threw it in the river.

But it always returns.

Sometimes on my bed.

Sometimes in the fridge.

Once it was waiting for me in the backseat of the car.

New entries write themselves. In Emily’s voice. Or mine—I can’t tell anymore.

Now it says:

> “You’re almost ready. Just a few more pages left. Then it will be your turn.”



I don’t sleep anymore. I don’t dream.

And the worst part?

I’ve started writing in the diary too.

Not with my hands… but in my sleep.

I wake up and new pages are filled. They tell stories I don’t remember living. But they’re mine.

Last night, I read my latest entry.

> “Tonight is the night.”




---

💀 Final Note:

If you're reading this…

Check your closet.

And if you ever find an old diary under your floorboards…

Don’t open it.

Because she’s looking for someone new to write the next chapter.

Maybe that someone… is you.