The Journal

Evelyn hadn’t set foot in the attic for years........

After inheriting her grandmother’s house, she’d avoided the musty space, not wanting to disturb the dust-covered memories of a life long gone. But when the creaking floorboards above her bedroom kept her awake for the third night in a row, she decided it was time to investigate.

The attic was exactly as she remembered—dim, cold, and filled with forgotten things. Boxes lined the walls, a rocking chair sat eerily in the corner, and cobwebs draped over antique furniture like a shroud. As she shuffled through the relics, a small leather-bound journal caught her eye. It lay atop an old trunk, its pages yellowed with age, but the cover was curiously pristine.

Evelyn opened the journal, expecting recipes or mundane notes from her grandmother’s life. Instead, she found the first entry dated only two weeks prior, long after her grandmother’s passing. The writing was strangely familiar, the looping cursive mirroring her own. She frowned and read the opening lines: “She climbs the creaking stairs to the attic, unsure of what she will find.”

Her breath caught in her throat. The words described her exact actions. The journal continued, recounting her movements in precise detail—the way she paused to listen to the silence, the way her fingers brushed the dust off the cover.

Unnerved, Evelyn flipped through the pages. Every entry detailed moments from her life, as if the writer had been watching her, unseen. The dates were all recent. Too recent. Her hands trembled as she reached today’s entry: “She will read this line, her heart racing, and decide to burn the journal. But it will be too late.”

Evelyn slammed the book shut, her pulse thundering in her ears. The air in the attic seemed to thicken, pressing in on her. Panic clawed at her chest as she stumbled down the stairs, the journal still in her hand. She needed to get rid of it, destroy it before—

Knock, knock.

The sound echoed through the house. Evelyn froze. There shouldn’t be anyone at the door. She hadn't heard anyone approach, and the house was isolated, miles from the nearest neighbor. Her eyes darted to the journal, the next words unfolding in her mind even before she opened it again: “She will hear a knock at the door. She will not answer, but the knocking will continue.”

Knock, knock.

Her heart raced as the sound grew louder, more insistent. She backed away, clutching the journal to her chest, as if the words inside could somehow protect her. But it wouldn’t stop. The knocking never stopped.

She forced herself to open the journal again, her vision blurring with fear. The next entry was short, a single line that sent a chill down her spine: “He is already inside.”

Her blood ran cold. Evelyn turned slowly, eyes darting around the darkened hallway. Nothing seemed out of place, but the air was heavy with something unseen. She could feel it—watching, waiting.

The journal slipped from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud. A whisper, barely audible, brushed her ear, a voice that was not her own.

“It’s time.”

Evelyn’s scream echoed through the house as the lights flickered and died. The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was the journal lying open on the floor, the final entry scrawled in frantic, jagged letters: “Her story ends here.”

The house was silent again.

Somewhere in the attic, the rocking chair began to move.