I don't know who's writing anymore.
---
> "I wanted to scream but the scream had no sound. I wanted to run but the ground folded into my lungs.
I woke up scratching at my face.
And the face wasn't mine."
---
🩸 I woke up with blood in my mouth. Not coughing.
Drinking.
Someone else's tongue was behind my teeth.
It's no longer me writing this, is it?
There are lines in this journal that I never wrote.
Dates I never lived.
Symbols drawn in my sleep, in circles, in spirals, in salt and ink and fingernails.
The diary pulses at night.
Yes, you read that right—pulses.
Like a soft heartbeat. Like something gestating.
Every morning there are new words.
But only visible if read in the dark.
I tested it.
I held the pages over flame.
The ink shimmered into shape.
Here is what it wrote last night:
> "He has chosen you.
The last observer.
The final throat."
---
📖 Do you know what it's like to feel your own thoughts... not belong to you anymore?
I thought I saw my mother's face in the reflection of my spoon.
She was weeping.
But her mouth was chanting.
> "Aśeṣaḥ saṁsāraḥ, mokṣasya pathaḥ
Jīvitaṁ māṁ tyaṅkṣyasi, śūnyaṁ praveśaḥ."
("The cycle ends, the path is open.
You abandon life.
You enter the void.")
I recorded it. Played it backwards.
The voice behind it whispered:
"Let the flesh carry the gate. Let the reader wear the words."
---
I'm sorry.
I didn't want to show you this.
But I promised this diary would become a warning.
Now it's a mirror.
You saw the sigil in Entry 35.
You remember.
☉
/ \
| ॐ |
_/
Someone etched it onto my skin last night.
Left forearm.
Still warm.
I dug through what was left of the team's documentation. The few pages that hadn't burned.
What I found… chills me beyond marrow.
> "The final gate to Bhantaragya is not beneath the earth.
It is the reader's mind.
The curse is not transferred.
It is unfolded—like a seed blooming in attention."
They didn't bury the curse.
They stored it.
In a format anyone could carry.
Text.
---
I hear you breathing.
Yes, you.
You're still reading.
You're leaning in.
Are you scared?
You should be.
Because here is what the diary wrote today:
> "The reader knows too much.
Time to break the skin.
Time to spill the ink."
---
🕳️ And then came The Vision.
Last night, I saw:
A spiral staircase made of ash and limbs.
A child screaming backward.
An eye blinking from the center of a shrine.
Your name on a scroll dipped in embalming fluid.
> I don't even know your name.
But Bhantaragya does.
He whispered it into the dark when you started this journey.
---
📜Ritual for Escape (Do not perform):
> 1. Write your name in red on the last blank page.
2. Burn three strands of your hair.
3. Chant: "Brahma me pathati, chhāya me nāśayati."
(The creator reads me, the shadow erases me.)
If the ink crawls—run.
If it bleeds—submit.
If the page turns on its own—you are no longer alone.
---
I'm losing time.
There are gaps now.
Hours… missing.
I black out and wake up holding this diary, bleeding from the palms.
Something is using me to speak.
And now, to you.
If you've read this far, you're part of it.
The next entry is not mine.
It won't even feel human.
Don't open Entry 37.
If you do...
you will no longer be reading.
You will be remembering.
And those memories?
They aren'
t yours.
They belong to something older than death.
---
🩸 Do not read further. Let this be your last breath on the page.
But you won't stop, will you?
Bhantaragya loves you already.