The Diary on My Doorstep

I almost tripped over it.

A leather-bound diary, sitting on my doormat like it belonged there. No name, no delivery label. Just… placed, carefully. Waiting.

It looked old — the kind you’d find in a dusty attic. I picked it up, more curious than cautious. The leather was cracked, the pages slightly yellow. I flipped it open and stopped cold.

“Property of AARON REED.”

That’s me.

I’ve never owned a diary in my life. I flipped the next page.

“July 12 — Aaron misses the 8:30 train. Shares a taxi with a woman in a red scarf. Spills coffee on her shoes. She smiles anyway.”

I read it again.

That had happened. Exactly. Yesterday.

My heart stuttered. I flipped through more pages. The handwriting was neat, familiar. Like mine — only smoother. Confident.

“July 13 — Aaron ignores three calls from his mother. She leaves a voicemail saying, ‘I had the dream again.’ He doesn’t call back.”

I had ignored those calls. I didn’t want to hear about her dream again. Something about a man with no face watching me sleep.

I closed the diary, my breath shallow.

That night, I sat at the kitchen table with the diary and a bottle of cheap wine. I read everything. Every page described a day from my past week. Conversations, thoughts, feelings — even things I hadn’t said aloud.

Then I got to today’s entry.

“July 15 — Aaron finds the diary. Thinks of burning it. Doesn’t. Reads until midnight. Doesn’t notice what’s watching from the hallway.”

I blinked. My hallway light was off. I stood slowly and turned it on.

Nothing.

I shut the diary and shoved it in a drawer.

But I left the kitchen light on when I went to bed.

The next day, I flipped to July 16.

“He receives a call from an unknown number. The voice whispers, ‘RUN.’ He thinks it’s a joke. It isn’t.”

At 10:04 a.m., my phone rang.

Unknown Number.

I stared at it for ten seconds. Then answered.

A dry whisper crawled through the speaker:

“Run.”

I dropped the phone.

My pulse thundered. The diary hadn’t just predicted today — it triggered it. Or maybe it caused it. I didn’t know which was worse.

I didn’t leave my apartment that day. I covered my peephole with tape.

On the third day, the diary was gone.

So was a photograph I kept in my wallet — the only picture of me and my dad before he vanished in 2004.

I hadn’t looked at that photo in years… but I remembered something now:

There was always someone blurry in the background. A man in a grey coat, standing by the trees. I always assumed it was a stranger.

But now I was sure…

He’d been following me long before the diary arrived.

July 18 —

The diary said I’d spot him again at the corner of Maple and 7th. I didn’t want to go. But curiosity dragged me.

At 3:44 p.m., he was there.

Same grey coat. Same stillness. No phone. No expression.

He didn’t move. Just watched.

By July 21, I was on a bus out of the city. The diary said I’d go to “the cabin in Vermont” — a place I never knew existed. But I checked the safety box my father left behind before he disappeared.

Inside: a map. Coordinates. And a key labeled simply:

“HOME.”

That’s where I am now.

The air smells like pine and something older… like old books or memories you aren’t supposed to find.

Last night, I found another diary on the cabin’s doorstep.

Blank.

Except the first page:

“For Aaron. This time, you write it.”

And underneath it, in shakier handwriting:

“He’s not in the photo anymore.”

I didn’t understand it — until I checked my wallet.

The photo was back.

Same forest, same moment with my dad. But the man in grey?

Gone.

Erased.

Or worse… replaced.

Tonight, as I write this, I keep hearing something outside. Not animals. Not wind.

Footsteps.

They stop when I look through the window. But every time I look away, they start again. Closer.

The last page of the original diary had a final line I never noticed before.

Written in red ink, almost invisible:

“When the watcher disappears from the photo, it means he’s inside.”

And now…

I hear the stairs creak.

If I don’t write a part two, you’ll know why.