Date: April 17, 2023
Author: Advait Sen (?)
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I don't know if this is me writing anymore.
I hear the scratching of ink before I even open the book. My pen lies still, but the pages move. They flutter like wings—not by wind, but breath. As if the diary is inhaling something. Or someone.
I woke up with words tattooed onto my forearm. Not ink. Not paint. Not even a scar. Just raw, pulsing script, the same as on the forehead of Ananya before she died. The same I saw on Professor Shimizu's neck when he slit his own throat.
This morning, I found the diary open to a page I don't remember writing. It said:
"33. Your number. The gate is ajar."
And underneath it—a mantra. Written in a hand too clean, too ancient, to be mine. Sanskrit? No. Older. Pre-Vedic, even.
> "Nīvṛtaṃ bhūtaṃ svayaṃkṛtaṁ,
Dvāraḥ bhantarāgyaṃ nāma,
Tvam paṭha, tvam spṛśa, tvam mokṣaya."
I didn't dare read it aloud. But it echoed. Not in my ears—in my chest. Like it was trying to unzip my ribs.
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The relics have turned black.
Burned, sealed, buried—and yet they return. Or maybe we never moved them. The chamber Theta remains closed, yes, but the seals sweat blood.
Only I remain. And yet sometimes at night, I hear them. Devika laughing—except she was torn in half. Liang screaming—but he's been silent for days. And someone else... someone I've never heard before. A voice old as famine. A voice that doesn't echo—it absorbs sound.
They called him Bhantaragya. The monk who tried to shortcut Nirvana. But I think that was never his goal. I think it was always you.
Yes, you.
You, who read.
You, who held your breath in Entry 17.
You, who paused when the chants were first typed.
You, who didn't close this diary when I begged you to.
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I am not asking for help anymore.
I am warning you.
Every word you've read is now part of your memory. Bhantaragya doesn't need you to believe—he only needs you to remember. That's how he spreads. Through cognition. Through awareness.
Close the book now and forget everything—if you still can.
Because if you speak the mantra even once—even in a whisper—he will know your name.
And names are the first to go when the soul is indexed.
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Tonight, I will try one last thing. The book wants to be completed. It told me so. Yes—it speaks now.
I am too weak to burn it. But perhaps I can trap it in ink, in symbol, in contradiction. A ritual of confusion. A blinding loop.
And if I fail... then whatever happens next is not my story anymore.
It's yours.
Unless...
Unless you've already heard him whisper your name.
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> If you're still reading, write your name below. That's how it begins.
Name: _____________________
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