There is no longer an "I" in this journal. Only the eye.
---
> "You came back.
You turned the page.
You let the words in."
---
It's no longer a diary.
It's an altar.
Last night, I sealed the remnants—burned the robes, buried the blood-stained scrolls, scattered the ash over the cracked soil near the Theta chamber.
It changed nothing.
The chants are now in the air itself, like breathing smoke. I close my ears but still hear them inside my skull.
---
🕯️ They were all gone by morning.
Sujin. Liang. Amruta. Zoya.
All of them.
Just bone shadows on the ground, twisted like they died mid-prayer.
Mouths sewn shut from the inside.
Fingernails engraved with letters I don't recognize.
Except for one.
The Japanese intern.
The one who started the rituals.
He was standing in the hallway, smiling.
But his eyes were missing.
He handed me the diary.
He said nothing.
Then he folded in half, backward.
With a sound like wet paper tearing.
---
And the diary opened on its own.
---
> "I have taken the names.
I have memorized the blood.
I wear their faith like skin."
---
⚠️ The ink now glows in the dark.
It bleeds when I try to close it.
It whispers when I try to sleep.
But worse...
It's begun speaking directly to you.
Yes. You, the reader.
Put your hand on the page.
Go on. Humor it.
It says if you do, it will show you a memory that is not your own.
A monk, centuries ago, gouging out his own eyes to avoid seeing the final scripture.
The one written by Bhantaragya himself.
In his own blood, after he tasted cursed Nirvana and turned it inside out.
---
🧠 Do you want to see it?
Do you want to know what he saw?
You already do.
It's the dream you forgot but wake up crying from.
It's the hallway that bends when you're alone.
It's that wordless chant stuck behind your tongue when you panic.
> Saṃraktasya. Mokṣakāla. Jīva dānava dvaraṁ.
---
🌑 And now the diary has written something else.
Not in any language.
Just this:
> ⚘𝙄 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜.
⚘𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣.
⚘𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩.
---
I've stopped writing.
Haven't I?
This entry wasn't written by me.
Was it?
I've been asleep for three days.
The pages are still filling themselves.
At night, I hear the scratching.
Like a thousand insects with ink-dipped legs.
And every morning, more of the truth waits.
More Bhantaragya.
---
☠️ WARNING TO THE READER
If you're still here:
You are now part of the ritual.
Your eyes opened the gate.
Your attention is the offering.
Your imagination is the altar.
> Try not to dream tonight.
If you do…
Make sure it's not of the staircase made of faces.
Because if you do...
He will know where you are.
---
🩸 Do not turn the page.
🩸 Do not say his name aloud.
🩸 Do not trace the symbols you see in your mind.
The next entry is 38.
But by then, you may no longer be the one reading it.
You might be the one it's written for.
---