The rain hammered the city like a relentless drum, turning streets into rivers and washing the neon lights into smeared reflections. Inside the abandoned clinic, Riya sat on the edge of a cold, metal examination table, gripping a leather-bound diary so tightly her knuckles ached. The smell of disinfectant clung to the walls, mingling with damp wood and something faintly metallic—like blood. Her heart thudded in rhythm with the storm outside, but it wasn't just the rain making her pulse quicken.
Dr. Aryan Mehra had vanished. No one had seen him leave the clinic. No one had even heard from him in a week. And yet, this diary—his final record, deliberately left behind—beckoned her closer with a sinister promise.
The first page was blank. The second, however… made her stomach twist. Faces were sketched in grotesque, impossible angles, eyes staring as if alive. Beneath each, a single word was scrawled in uneven, shaky handwriting: fear, shame, memory.
A memory surfaced unbidden—her brother, years ago, screaming in his sleep, trapped in his own mind. She shivered. "No… not real," she whispered, but the words sounded hollow.
The first entry caught her eye:
> "Patient 7: fear manifests in shadows. Do not let them touch reality. Observe the reaction."
The sentence seemed to pulse on the page, like the words themselves were alive. Her breath hitched, cold sweat prickling her spine. The room's shadows deepened, curling in corners where no light should reach.
A sudden creak made her jump. She spun around. Empty hallway. Only the fluorescent hum above and the relentless drum of the storm. Yet the air felt heavier, almost watching her.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She froze, dread pooling in her stomach. Hesitating, she answered.
> "Riya… did you find it yet?"
The voice was calm. Smooth. Familiar enough to make her skin crawl.
> "Who… who is this?" she stammered.
> "You will know soon enough," the voice said.
The line went dead.
Riya's fingers shook. The diary's pages felt heavier, almost as if they were breathing. Whispers, low and unintelligible, slithered around her ears. She pressed her hands over her face.
Then, one of the grotesque faces in the diary… blinked.
Her blood ran cold.
Something in her chest constricted, a memory she hadn't thought of in years clawing its way back—the night her brother disappeared, the empty room, the sound of whispers that no one else heard. The fear she had buried deep surged like wildfire.
Was this real, or was her mind betraying her? She didn't know, and that scared her more than anything else.
And beneath it all, a thought formed in her mind, sharp and horrifying:
The diary didn't choose her by accident. She was next.
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