I FOUND THE OLD BLUE DIARY HIDDEN UNDER HIS BED
The heavy book landed on the floor with a loud, unexpected thud, kicking up years of dust from beneath the neglected bed frame.
He walked into the bedroom just as my fingers traced the faded inscription on the diary’s spine. “What in God’s name is that?” he snapped, his voice cutting through the silence, low and edged with something I couldn’t immediately place. The air grew thick with the musty smell of ancient paper and something else… dread.
I held it up, the worn leather cover feeling surprisingly rough and cold against my skin, like something unearthed from a grave. This wasn’t just an old journal he forgot about; this was a carefully concealed history, a secret life I never knew existed hidden right under my nose for years.
“Who is Sarah?” I asked him, my voice barely a functional whisper, pointing to the name repeated with disturbing frequency on almost every single page I flipped through. His face went stark white, every bit of colour draining away instantly. He lunged forward, reaching for the book desperately, his eyes wide with a raw, animalistic panic I’d never seen before. “You shouldn’t have looked,” he muttered through teeth that were visibly clenched tight.
Then, my eyes landed on one specific entry dated two years before we ever even met, detailing a meticulous plan. It outlined a betrayal, a calculated move against someone named Mark, chillingly specific about stolen money and making someone disappear completely. It wasn’t vague or metaphorical; it was an admission. He took a step back, the space between us suddenly feeling miles wide and icy cold. “Let me explain,” he began, but the words felt hollow, worthless against the concrete proof in my hands.
Then the distinct sound of a key turning in the front door lock echoed upstairs.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The distinct sound of a key turning in the front door lock echoed upstairs, sharp and sudden. My heart leaped into my throat, a different kind of fear slicing through the shock. He froze too, his wide eyes flicking towards the ceiling before snapping back to the diary clutched in my hands. The raw panic intensified, making his face look almost grotesque.
“Who is that?” I whispered, the question barely audible above the frantic thumping in my chest.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lunged again, this time more desperate, more violent. “Give it to me!” he snarled, his hand reaching, fingers clawing at the air between us. I yanked the book back, stumbling away from him, the heavy volume still my only shield. The musty smell of the diary suddenly felt sickening. This wasn’t just about a past affair; it was about theft, about someone disappearing.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs now, slow and deliberate, descending towards the bedroom. Every step felt like a hammer blow against my fragile composure. My gaze was locked on the door, a dreadful certainty growing in my stomach.
The footsteps stopped just outside. A hand appeared on the doorframe, then a woman stepped into view.
It was her. Sarah.
She was younger than I’d pictured, with tired eyes and a wary expression that softened into confusion as she took in the scene: him, pale and trembling, me, backed against the wall, clutching a familiar-looking blue book.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice quiet, laced with a weary familiarity that twisted the knife in my gut. She looked from me to him, her eyes narrowing slightly as they settled on the diary.
His face crumpled. “Sarah, I…” he started, his voice breaking.
My eyes flicked back to the open page in my hands – the entry detailing the plan to make Mark disappear. Two years before me. And here stood Sarah, looking like she belonged here, in this house, with him. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The betrayal wasn’t just emotional; it was foundational, built on lies and secrets potentially involving serious crimes, people hurt or worse.
I looked at Sarah, then at the diary, then back at him, the man I thought I knew. The space between us was now an chasm filled with years of deceit. He wasn’t just a liar; he was a stranger capable of terrible things. And now, Sarah was here, a living embodiment of the secrets in the book, the person he was clearly connected to in a way that transcended a forgotten fling. My grip tightened on the diary. It wasn’t just proof of his past; it felt like my only leverage in a situation that had just spiraled into something truly dangerous.