Dear diary…
Today marks the thirtieth day of trying to act like I'm normal. Every night, I lie in bed and feel the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on me. I try to ignore the figures that crawl onto my bed while I sleep. I try to pretend I can't see them. Sometimes, I even convince myself that they're not there, that it's all just part of some strange dream.
But it isn't.
There was a time when my younger sister tried to cross the road. She almost got hit. Standing in the middle of the street was a man whose head hung limply to the side as though his neck had been snapped. His face was lifeless, his arms twitching slightly as he blocked her path.
She hadn't noticed anything. She had simply waited, confused by what she thought was a strange breeze or a trick of the light. But I had seen him clearly. I could even smell the rot on him. His body gave off a stench like spoiled meat, and his clothes clung to his skin as though soaked in swamp water.
I remember feeling a sharp stab of irritation. It wasn't fear at first. It was annoyance. He wasn't trying to hurt her. He was trying to get a reaction from me. I could feel his eyes, hollow and dark, watching me for the slightest flicker of emotion.
He wanted me to flinch. He wanted me to scream. He wanted me to break.
But I didn't. I held it in. I always do.
Sometimes I wonder if they know I can see them. Maybe they do. Maybe they're trying to use me. Maybe they think I can set them free.
I don't think I should. I'm not even sure what they are. Spirits? Cursed remnants of the dead? Whatever they are, I doubt they'd be useful to me. They don't speak. They don't help. They just linger.
Still, I write this down every night, just in case I forget who I am. Just in case I start to believe they're part of me.
Inside a dark room, dimly lit by the flickering glow of an old lantern placed on a wooden desk, a boy sat with his shoulders hunched forward. The flame's reflection danced across the walls, casting long shadows that shifted like ghosts waiting to be noticed.
The boy, Amon, gripped a pen tightly in his right hand. His fingers trembled slightly as he scribbled down each word in the diary that lay open in front of him. The page was already smudged in places, his hurried writing blending into the page's fibers like dried blood on linen.
His back arched slightly, as if an invisible weight pressed down on his shoulders. His spine ached. His eyelids drooped.
Suddenly, he pushed the chair back and stood up, though unsteadily, as if something unseen clung to his limbs. He collapsed onto the bed, his body curling up like someone trying to shield himself from a storm.
His breathing slowed.
The silence in the room was almost complete, broken only by the occasional creak of wood and the whisper of the wind brushing against the cracked windowpane.
Amon's hair hung in messy strands over his face, and sweat had begun to bead along his forehead. His eyes opened slightly, glancing toward his shoulder.
Sitting there, as still as death, was a middle-aged man. His skin was pale and sunken, almost translucent under the lantern's light. His eyes were hollow, devoid of life. His lips parted slightly, revealing blackened teeth that looked as though they would crumble if touched.
He didn't speak. He didn't move.
Amon stared directly at him for the briefest moment, then shifted his gaze to the ceiling. His heartbeat quickened, thudding painfully against his ribcage, but he gave no sign of alarm.
He didn't flinch. He didn't scream.
He simply closed his eyes.
The man remained seated on his shoulder, his gaze fixed on Amon's face as if waiting for something. Waiting for him to break.
But Amon wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
His breaths came slower now, each one deeper than the last. His hands clenched the bedsheet tightly, gripping it as though it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.
The room felt colder. The air had grown dense, like a curtain of mist pressing in from all sides. The scent of mildew and rust filled his nostrils, clinging to the inside of his lungs.
Still, he stayed silent.
Minutes passed.
Eventually, the pressure on his chest eased slightly. The weight on his shoulder seemed to lift, but Amon didn't dare to open his eyes to check. He had learned long ago that looking was an invitation.
Instead, he focused on the sound of the lantern's flame flickering behind him. It was soft, rhythmic, almost like a lullaby.
He let it lull him toward the edge of sleep, even though his thoughts raced beneath the surface.
They were always watching.
Always waiting.
But he would continue pretending.
He would continue writing.
He would continue resisting.
Because the moment he gave in — the moment he accepted what they wanted him to become — he feared there would be no turning back.