The Book That Watched You - by Onlyreal

You awake to the faint hum of the city outside your window, though the hour has no name. Darkness presses against the glass like a living thing, patient, waiting for you to notice. And there it is: the diary. On your desk, in your bag, on the chair beside you. It has been there since you cannot remember, and yet, it arrives again as if to say, I have waited. Its leather cover is unnervingly soft, warmed as if it had been pressed against skin moments before your eyes found it. The faint aroma of iron and rot rises from it, sweet and cloying, like flowers pressed long before they should have been. You hesitate. Something inside you knows this book is not meant for curiosity alone. And yet, your fingers trace the spine with compulsive reverence, like greeting an old friend—or an old enemy. The first page is blank. Blank, empty, yet it hums with expectation. A word emerges, pressed deep into the fibers as though your own breath has carved it there: You have come at last. A shiver snakes down your spine. You flip the page. Another word appears: I know you. You do not yet understand, but you will. The diary remembers every place you have hidden, every shadow you have crept along, every silent gaze you have turned toward pain without intervening. It catalogs you as much as it records the dead. You are no longer a reader; you are the witness the diary has always awaited. The following entries are deceptively innocuous, chronicling a childhood home. Rooms without sunlight. Floors warped by moisture. Candles burned down to puddles of wax, dripping into grotesque shapes that seemed almost human. And there, in the faint scrawl, fragments of your past flicker into view: small hands always careful, always watching, always mimicking actions you could not yet name. You always liked to watch. That’s why they trusted you. You close the book. You tell yourself it is coincidence. A misdelivery. Perhaps a prank. But deep inside, a knowing pulse rises. Something in the diary—something in you—recognizes familiarity. Do you remember the first one? The first life you observed vanish? You looked away, but your gaze lingered. You learned the rhythm of fear. Days blur into nights. The diary is always present. Each morning, you awake with faint impressions of events you cannot name. Faces flash across your mind: silent, pleading, accusing. Shadows twist on walls that do not exist. You dream of chalk circles drawn on cold concrete floors, candles melting into shapes too human, too deliberate. A river that swallows someone whole. The whisper of names you should know, yet cannot place. The diary grows more insistent. You were never innocent. You were learning. And I have remembered. The longer you read, the more blurred the lines between memory and diary become. Sometimes the diary describes acts you do not remember committing, but the details are so precise—so intimate—that you recognize the angle of your hand, the weight of the tool, the cadence of breath. You are compelled to turn the pages, compelled to remember, compelled to participate. You were never a witness. You were always the author. You try to resist. You slam the book shut. You shove it across the desk. You bolt drawers. You tell yourself that you do not have to read. But the diary opens itself, even when you are elsewhere, even when the room is dark and silent. It calls you. It remembers. And you obey. You always turned your eyes away at the right moment, yet they were watching. You remember your first circle, drawn on cold concrete, faint chalk lines almost invisible except for the way they catch the light. The first time you held the knife too carefully, balancing it in your hands to see the effect. The first scream you did not stop. You were careful, meticulous, patient. You turned your head, you held your breath, you watched, always from the right angle, the right shadow, the right distance. You never intervened because you never wanted to. The diary begins to catalog your role with precision. The scratches of your hands on tools you did not think to remember. The timing of your observations. The way you watched from corners, stairwells, shadows. Every life you observed, every death you permitted, every scream you ignored: it is all here. And slowly, inexorably, you realize what you have always known but refused to admit: the diary is not a record of someone else. It is a record of you. You try to protest. You slam it shut. You shove it across the desk. The world outside continues, uncaring. But at night, when the city hums low beneath your window, when shadows lengthen and twist, when the faint smell of iron and wax rises again, the diary opens itself. It calls you. It remembers. And you obey. The air grows thick. Candles appear that you did not light, their flames flickering in patterns that resemble letters or symbols—some recognizable, others alien. Shadows twist along walls, bending as if to follow you. The smell of iron intensifies. You realize it is blood, and it is yours. Not fresh, not recent, but lingering, embedded in your memory, in your senses, in the diary. You clutch the pages. They are heavy, almost pulsing with life. They whisper as you read: the names, the locations, the dates, the methods. Every detail. Every correction you ever made. Every act you thought forgotten. Every lesson you absorbed. Every scream you heard in silence. And as the realization settles, the diary presses close, almost a living thing in your hands. It does not accuse; it confirms. You have always known. You can no longer distinguish diary from memory. Pages describe things you cannot believe you did, yet recognize. Faces, locations, cries. You hear them in your head even as you read. You see them, see yourself standing apart, watching, measuring, waiting. The diary becomes a mirror. Every act, every observation, every silent decision is reflected back. And the reflection is undeniable. The diary does not allow excuses. It does not allow distance. It is patient, persistent, intimate. And finally, unbearably, it delivers the last truth: All this has always been yours. You wrote it. You observed it. You allowed it. And you will continue to. Your fingers tremble. You clutch the diary tighter. You cannot stop. You do not want to stop. The pages are all there, waiting for you, waiting to acknowledge what you already know: • The basement beneath the cathedral • The chalk circles • Candles melting into grotesque shapes • Blood pressed into patterns • Names whispered and recorded • Lives ended, witnessed, cataloged Every detail is yours. Every death is yours. Every scream is yours. You cannot look away. You turn page after page, the diary guiding your hands, guiding your mind. You read names, times, places. You read methods. You read yourself. Every chapter confirms your guilt. Every sentence affirms your complicity. Every page whispers: You cannot deny yourself. Your breathing slows. Your pulse steadies. The diary is not frightening. It is inevitable. It is truth. And at last, you understand: the horror was never outside. It was never someone else. It was always you. You close your eyes. You clutch the diary. And you know what you must do. At the end, they never found the killer’s diary.Because it was never lost.It’s in your hands.You kept turning the pages.You kept watching people die.And you never once tried to stop.

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