The diary's story had begun like a gentle stream—soft, melancholic, predictable.
But now?
Now it surged like a river in flood.
Each turn of the page wasn't just a step deeper into a man's grief—it was a descent into something darker. Obsession, injustice… and now, whispers of the arcane.
The line between reality and madness had blurred. And as my fingers hovered over the aged parchment, I felt the tremor of something more—a pressure in the air, as if the diary itself was watching.
May 5th, 18XX
Dear Diary,
Another day has passed, and with it, another glimpse of her. I stand behind the familiar tree, my heart pounding as her figure comes into view. She moves with a grace that leaves me in awe, her presence illuminating the world around her. I dare not draw too close, for fear that my mere presence might shatter the illusion that has sustained me for so long.
Oh, how I wish to speak to her, to share even a fragment of my thoughts and dreams. Yet, my courage falters in the face of her radiant beauty. So, I content myself with these stolen moments, these brief encounters that fuel my hopes and nourish my heart.
Every nuance of her expression, every curve of her smile, etches itself into my memory. I find solace in these memories, knowing that they are mine alone, a treasure trove of emotions that I guard with both fervor and melancholy.
And so, the cycle continues—my daily ritual of devotion and yearning. I watch, hidden in the shadows, my heart a symphony of emotions that swell and recede like the tides. She remains oblivious to my presence, to the depths of my affection, and yet, I find comfort in these silent exchanges.
Until the next entry,
[Anon]
I slapped my hand over my face. "How can she not know a guy's been stalking her every day? She's probably ignoring him for her own safety, bruh."
'If it were me?'
'Straight to the groin. Or the cops. No middle ground.'
"Eww…" I added as Ronald sniffled beside me, positively glowing.
"Oh, this is so touching," he murmured, practically twinkling. "I'm becoming his fan."
I gave him a look. The kind that said, 'you are beyond saving'.
But still, my fingers didn't stop. Page after page, I kept flipping. 'Maybe it was morbid curiosity. Maybe I just wanted to see if this sad stalker ever woke up from his delusion.'
What came next, though, wasn't delusion.
It was nightmare.
June 16th, 18XX
Dear Diary,
I decided to buck up and confess to the love of my life. I waited at the same spot and time for her but she wasn't there. I waited for hours till dusk. I felt sad and decided to head back home. I was worried she was going to stop coming like last time. I dragged my feet back home. On the way home, I heard some people talking about a witch. The witch was captured and going to be executed at the central.
Curiosity gripped me, and I felt an irresistible urge to witness the scene. I hurried to the site and saw the woman they referred to as a witch. She was bound, surrounded by a frenzied crowd wielding torches and shouting, "Burn her! Burn the witch!" My heart raced as I took in the sight, torn between my desire to protect her and the overwhelming fear of the mob.
But what struck me the most was her expression—a serene smile on her lips, a tranquil acceptance of her impending fate. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic scene around her. I attempted to intervene, to plead for mercy, but I was held back by the fervor of the mob. And then, the torches were thrown, and I watched in horror as the flames consumed her, their crackling roars mingling with her agonized screams.
The rain came, extinguishing the flames, but leaving behind only a pile of ashes where the woman once were. I fell to my knees, devastated by the brutality I had witnessed. The rain mingled with my tears as I struggled to comprehend the cruelty of humanity and the fragility of life.
As I returned home, a heavy emptiness settled within me, a weight I cannot shake. The memory of her smile haunted me, a reminder of the injustice that had been done. I am left to grapple with the horrors of that day, forever etched in my heart.
Yours,
[Anon]
Ronald wailed like someone had just deleted his save file.
"Nooooooo!!" he shrieked, clutching the diary like a fallen comrade. "How could they do such a thing? That poor painter!"
I sighed and reached out, resting a hand on his head. "Cheer up, Ronald. It's not over yet. Look—this diary still has plenty more pages." I offered a thin smile.
He sniffled and looked down at the thick tome in my hands. "Looks like he didn't commit suicide. I'm glad," he muttered, voice still shaky but steadier now.
I raised a brow. "Do people really kill themselves just because their unrequited love dies?"
"Some do," he replied softly, wiping tears and snot on his sleeve.
'...Right. People are strange.'
I exhaled. That somber weight clung to us like smoke—but the story wasn't finished.
Not yet.
July 16th, 18XX
Dear Diary,
It has been a month since I lost her. My heart aches as I cannot see her anymore. The pain is unbearable, and each day feels like a struggle to endure. I find solace in the bottom of a bottle, drowning my sorrows in alcohol. Yet even in my stupor, I cannot escape the nightmare that haunts my dreams—the memory of her screaming and burning alive.
One day, in a dingy pub, I overheard a conversation that sent my world spinning. A stranger's voice carried the tale of a nobleman's malicious act—a nobleman who had once proposed to the beautiful woman, only to be rejected and humiliated. Seeking revenge, he spread vicious rumors, branding her as a witch and orchestrating her unjust execution. Anger coursed through my veins as I listened, my fists clenched in impotent fury.
Driven by a surge of emotions, I sought out the nobleman responsible for her fate. In a moment of blind rage, I attempted to strike him down, to avenge her memory. But his bodyguards were swift to intervene, and their blows rained down upon me until I lay broken and bloodied on the cold ground.
Time seemed to blur as I lay there, battered and bruised, contemplating the injustice of the world. Hours passed, and I eventually staggered to my feet, my body aching with every movement. I dragged myself home, collapsing onto my bed, tears mingling with the pain in my heart.
In this moment of despair, I feel utterly powerless. The world seems cruel and unforgiving, and I am left questioning the justice that had failed her. The memory of her smile, her grace, and her unjust end haunts my every waking moment, a constant reminder of the darkness that can consume even the brightest of souls.
Yours,
[Anon]
July 28th, 18XX
Dear Diary,
For twelve long days, I remained shut inside my house, isolated from the world. I consumed whatever remnants lay in my fridge, my existence a blur of idleness within the confines of my disheveled abode. Then, unexpectedly, a bell rang out, shattering my solitude. I reluctantly answered the door to find a book without a title, its pages holding an enigmatic promise, on my doorstep.
I took the book in and read its contents, discovering its secrets—tales of contracting a demon, of wishes granted. Initially hesitant, the prospect of reuniting with the beautiful lady beckoned me. I immersed myself in study, dedicating my days and nights to the art of summoning the arcane.
The moment arrived, and the demon was called forth through the intricate pattern I had meticulously drawn. My desire was conveyed, a wish to see her again, but the true cost remained hidden. To resurrect the lady, the sacrifice of numerous lives was demanded. Consumed by a desperate obsession, I agreed without hesitation.
The allure of her presence eclipsed all reason, even if it meant becoming a dreaded demon, scorned and feared by all.
Yours,
[Anon]
"Oui… Is my eyes playing tricks on me?" I muttered, frozen. "Summoning and making a contract with a demon? He's out of his bloody mind!"
I glanced at Ronald, who looked just as stunned. "Don't tell me this is normal too?"
He flailed. "No way! Demons don't exist."
"Are you sure?" I asked slowly.
He hesitated.
That was enough.
My mind flashed with images—burning wings, a voice in my soul, the name Lyndall echoing in the abyss.
"Well… most people think demons are just myths, so…" Ronald trailed off.
"Mm." I crossed my arms. "If they knew demons actually exist, they might try making contracts too."
"Wah! Not everyone's like that!" he protested quickly. "That's why they say everyone's born different!"
"Hah… sure, sure," I murmured. "Let's continue."
But just as I reached for the next page, a sudden gust howled through the room.
The candlelight flickered violently. The diary's pages fluttered like wings in panic.
And the air turned cold.
As if something was waking up.
Something that had been waiting.