The Diary Was Cursed. I Should’ve Let It Stay Buried

They say curiosity killed the cat, but in my case, it nearly killed my sanity.

I wasn’t supposed to be in the attic that day. My grandmother’s house had always given me the creeps—too quiet, too old, and filled with shadows that seemed to whisper if you listened long enough. But when she passed away and the house was left to me, I decided to clean it up before putting it on the market. That was my first mistake.

It was raining outside, one of those cold, endless drizzles that soaks into your bones. I was sifting through boxes of junk when I noticed a loose panel in the attic floor. Underneath it was a small, dusty wooden box wrapped in faded red cloth.

Inside was a diary.

The leather cover was cracked, and a rusted locket was tied to the spine. The moment I touched it, I felt a chill crawl up my spine. But I laughed it off. I mean, cursed objects? That’s just movie stuff… right?

Wrong.

The first few pages seemed harmless—entries from a girl named Eliza, written in the early 1900s. She wrote about her strict parents, her secret love, and the cruel governess who punished her for speaking out. But as I kept reading, the tone shifted. The handwriting changed—more frantic, less controlled.

One night, Eliza wrote:

"He comes to me in dreams. I didn’t mean to summon him. I only wanted to be heard."

Summon him?

That was when the dreams started. At first, they were just unsettling—dark figures standing at the foot of my bed, distant whispers echoing in empty rooms. But by the third night, I wasn’t just dreaming. I was living it.

I’d wake up with scratches down my arms. Cold breath on the back of my neck. Doors I locked would be open in the morning. I heard a child crying from the attic at 3:06 AM—every single night.

I tried burning the diary. It wouldn’t catch fire.

I buried it deep in the woods behind the house. It was back on my nightstand the next morning, dirt still clinging to the cover.

I contacted a local historian, desperate for answers. She recognized Eliza’s name immediately.

“You should’ve left that diary alone,” she said. “Eliza disappeared in 1912. They say she was possessed. Her family locked her in the attic until she starved.”

The attic. That attic.

She told me the townspeople believed Eliza’s spirit was bound to the diary—that anyone who read her final words became her next host.

I begged the historian for help. She gave me one chilling piece of advice: “Don't read the last page. No matter what.”

But temptation is a powerful thing.

On the seventh night, sleep-deprived and desperate, I gave in.

The final page wasn’t written in ink. It was scratched into the paper with something sharp—deep enough to tear through to the back cover.

"You're next."

As soon as I read it, the lights in the house blew out. The temperature plummeted. And I swear—I saw her. A pale girl in a torn white dress, her eyes black as coal, standing in the corner of the room, grinning.

I don't remember screaming. I don't remember running.

I woke up in the hospital the next day. They said I was found unconscious in the woods, muttering the same words over and over: “She’s inside me.”

The doctors think it was a psychotic break.

But I know the truth.

I moved far away. I changed my name. I never went back to that house. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I still hear whispers. And every year on the same night, the dream returns.

If you ever find an old diary buried where it shouldn’t be, leave it. Burn it, bury it, run from it. But never open it.

Some secrets don’t want to be uncovered.

Some stories want to be lived—through you.