(The night is black and endless. Rain has stopped, but the silence feels heavier than the storm. Emily lies awake in bed, her eyes raw from crying. Every time she closes them, she sees her teacher's face. Alive. Smiling. And then gone.)
She tells herself she can't keep the diary. It's poison. If she stays close to it, people will keep dying. That thought gives her a sliver of hope—distance. She pulls it from her desk, not daring to look at the cover too long. The leather feels warm, pulsing, like skin.
Emily stuffs it deep into her closet, under shoeboxes and blankets. Out of sight. Out of mind.
She exhales, trembling. "You can't hurt me if I don't look at you."
The closet door rattles. Just once. Sharp. She gasps, pulling her blanket tighter. Her phone buzzes suddenly on the nightstand.
(notification: "Lily: you okay?")
Relief floods her chest. Her shaking hands snatch the phone—connection, safety, a lifeline.
But when she opens the message, it isn't words.
It's a photo. A screenshot of the news article again. Crestwood High Teacher Found Dead.
But this time—the image shifts. The teacher's smiling staff photo blinks. Her lips twitch, eyes rolling to Emily through the screen. The face begins to bleed from the eyes, red dripping over the text.
Emily screams and hurls the phone. It hits the wall, screen cracked.
Her lamp flickers. The shadows stretch, moving on their own, too long, too thin. One of them bends across the wall and tilts its head—just like her teacher used to when she'd check Emily's homework.
"No…" Emily whispers, backing up into the corner of her bed.
The closet door creaks open on its own. The diary lies on top of the pile now, glowing faintly. Its cover twitches.
Emily shakes her head violently. "No—I put you away!"
The pages flip by themselves, faster and faster, the sound like screaming. Then they stop. Fresh ink bleeds out:
"You can bury me. You can burn me. You can run. But you cannot escape me."
Her breathing quickens. The room feels smaller, suffocating. The air tastes of iron again.
And then—she hears it.
A voice. Not on the page this time. A whisper. Low, guttural, crawling into her head:
"Debt must be paid."
She clamps her hands over her ears. "Stop! Stop it!"
The diary answers by showing her something else.
(Her vision tunnels. Suddenly, she's not in her room anymore. She's standing in a stone chamber, lit by hundreds of candles. Hooded figures circle a chained book—the diary, ancient, bound in iron. Their chanting rattles her bones. Blood drips onto the pages, and each drop makes the chains tremble. A figure slices their palm open, presses it to the book. The blood vanishes, absorbed into the leather. The chains shatter. The book breathes.)
Emily's knees buckle. The whisper returns, now louder, clearer:
"A name given is a life taken. A life taken is a debt paid."
She jolts awake—or thinks she does. She's back in her room. Everything is silent. Her phone lies cracked on the floor.
The diary is shut. Still.
But on her mirror, written in dripping red letters that smell of rust and salt:
"WHO WILL YOU SAVE, EMILY?"
Thunder shatters the silence. Emily screams.
(Fade out: her reflection in the mirror smiles back at her—but she isn't smiling.)