I FOUND MY SISTER’S DIARY IN THE ATTIC AND READ EVERY WORD
I was halfway through the entry about her miscarriage when I heard footsteps creaking on the stairs. My heart stopped. I slammed the diary shut, but the worn leather felt heavy, like it was screaming at me to keep reading. The air up there was thick with dust, and I could taste the dryness in my throat.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was sharp, slicing through the silence. I froze, clutching the diary to my chest. “I… I was just looking for Mom’s old photo album,” I stammered. She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing, her hands trembling. “Don’t lie to me. I can see what’s in your hands.”
The tension was suffocating. I wanted to scream, to throw it back in the box and pretend I never saw it. But then I said it: “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her face crumbled, and she sank to the floor. “Because it was mine to carry,” she whispered. “Not yours.”
I handed her the diary, my fingers brushing against hers, cold and unsteady. She took it, clutching it like it was the only thing holding her together.
Then the attic light flickered, and I heard the front door slam shut. Neither of us had called anyone.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The silence stretched, punctuated only by our ragged breaths and the distant rumble of thunder. The air in the attic seemed to shrink, pressing in on us. I watched my sister, Sarah, as she cradled the diary, her body wracked with silent sobs. I felt a hollow ache in my chest, a mixture of guilt and a strange, unwelcome understanding. The words I’d read, the raw pain they held, had carved a chasm between us, a painful intimacy born of betrayal.
The front door slamming had startled us both. We glanced at each other, fear tightening its icy grip. We were alone, in a dusty, forgotten space, and a chilling certainty settled in my bones. We weren’t alone.
“Who… who was that?” I finally managed to whisper, my voice barely audible.
Sarah didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the diary. Slowly, she began to read, her lips moving silently, her eyes tracing the familiar script. I watched her, mesmerized and terrified. Then, she gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth.
“It… it’s not just about the miscarriage,” she stammered, her eyes wide with a horror that mirrored my own. “There’s… something else.”
She pointed a shaking finger at a specific passage. I leaned closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. The words swam before my eyes, a chilling premonition. It spoke of a presence, a feeling of being watched, a growing sense of dread that had permeated her life in the months leading up to the tragedy. A name, unfamiliar and unsettling, was mentioned repeatedly – a name that felt like a cold breath on the back of my neck: Elias.
As she continued to read, the descriptions escalated, becoming more vivid, more terrifying. A feeling of being followed, objects moving on their own, whispers in the dead of night. It was more than grief, more than depression. It was… malevolent.
Suddenly, the attic door creaked open. A shadowy figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, obscuring the dim light from the hallway. I couldn’t make out any features, just a tall, slender form. My breath caught in my throat.
“Who’s there?” I choked out.
The figure didn’t answer. It simply took a step forward, and the door swung shut behind it, plunging the attic into near darkness. Then, a voice, raspy and cold, echoed through the room. “He’s here.”
Sarah clutched the diary tighter, her knuckles white. “Elias…” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the pounding of my own heart.
The figure took another step, and the faint light from the single bulb above our heads began to flicker, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The air grew thick and heavy, the dust swirling around us. Then, the light went out completely, and a scream, Sarah’s, ripped through the suffocating darkness.
I lunged forward, blindly searching for her, my hands flailing in the darkness. “Sarah!” I cried, but only the echoing silence answered me.
Then, I felt it. A cold, clammy hand on my shoulder. A whisper, right in my ear, so low I could barely hear it, yet it resonated within me with a chilling certainty. “It’s your turn now.”
I twisted away, and stumbled backwards, scrambling towards the door, desperate to escape the suffocating darkness and the unseen presence. I found the latch, and pulled with all my might. It wouldn’t budge. I was trapped.
Suddenly, the light flickered back on, revealing the dusty, familiar attic. But Sarah was gone. In her place, lying on the floor, was the diary. I picked it up, my hands trembling. The last entry. It was written in a shaky hand, and scrawled across the final page, in crimson red ink, was the name “Elias.” And underneath, the words: *He’s coming for you.*
The front door slammed shut again. And this time, it was the last sound I ever heard.