It was a rainy afternoon when I found it. My childhood diary, bound in faded blue leather, hidden in a dusty corner of my parents’ attic. The moment I laid eyes on it, a strange, prickling sensation crawled up my spine. I hadn’t seen that diary in decades, and I distinctly remembered tossing it out when I was thirteen. And yet, here it was.

I thumbed through the pages. My early entries were there, exactly as I remembered, rambling notes about school, my favorite cartoons, and the silly crush I’d had on the neighbour’s son. But as I flipped closer to the middle, my fingers froze.

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There, in sharp, jagged handwriting that wasn’t mine, was an entry dated July 5, 1998. The ink had bled slightly on the paper, as though the words had been scrawled with feverish urgency.

“He watches you while you sleep.”

A cold shiver ran through me. I was twelve in 1998, and that summer had been unremarkable, just long, hot days spent at the lake and nights curled up reading books. I had no memory of writing that, and I certainly didn’t recognize the handwriting.

I turned the page.

“He’s getting closer. He likes the red nightgown.”

My breath caught in my throat. I did have a red nightgown back then, my favorite one. But how could anyone have known that? I slammed the diary shut, my heart racing.

I should have thrown it away, burned it, anything to be rid of it. But something compelled me to keep reading. Some dark, morbid curiosity or the nagging sense that I needed to know what else was inside. I opened it again, skipping ahead to another entry, this one dated August 2, 1998.

“You didn’t hear him last night, but he was there. Standing by the foot of your bed. Watching.”

I felt sick. I clutched the diary tightly, my palms damp with sweat. I didn’t remember anything unusual happening that summer. But now, vague, unsettling memories began to resurface. Waking up in the middle of the night to a creaking sound. Finding my bedroom window open when I was sure I’d closed it. And always, always that feeling of being watched.

The entries continued, growing more and more deranged. The handwriting became sloppier, the words more cryptic.

“He likes it when you’re scared. Don’t scream tonight, or he’ll come closer.”

“You locked the window. Clever. But he’s already inside.”

I couldn’t breathe. My hands shook as I flipped to the last entry, dated September 15, 1998, the day before my thirteenth birthday.

“Tomorrow, you’ll try to get rid of me. But I’ll never leave. I’ll always be here, watching, waiting. You belong to me now.”

I dropped the diary as though it had burned me. My mind reeled. I didn’t remember any of this. But deep down, I knew the entries were real. Somehow, someone, or something, had been there that summer, tormenting me while I slept.

And then, as if in a trance, I picked up the diary again and turned to the very last page. It was blank—except for a single line, written in fresh, wet ink.

“Welcome back. I’ve missed you.”

At that moment, I heard it, a soft creak, like a footstep, coming from just behind me.

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