This online diary records the real experiences of me being harmed by the evil spirit raised by my ex-wife, which are happening to me every day in 2025. I will write in the form of a diary. This is my first writing, and perhaps it will also be my last. If there is no update for a period of time, it probably means that I have passed away...
This morning felt quieter than usual.
I woke naturally, without the alarm, and the only sound in the room was the steady tick-tock of the clock. My daughter had already been taken to school early by her grandfather, and the dining table downstairs lay bare, as if no one had ever touched it.
It has been four months since the divorce. My eight-year-old son is far away in the United States with my ex-wife; my ten-year-old daughter stayed with me. She's still young—often waking in the middle of the night, frightened, running to my side. All I can do is hold her and coax her back to sleep, whispering promises that even I no longer fully believe. Sometimes, in those dark hours, I wonder if I am comforting her, or if I am really clinging to her small warmth to keep myself from unraveling.
Work hasn't been going well. My income has dropped sharply compared to before, and at forty, my health has started to falter. I often feel a tightness in my chest, a dull weight pressing against me, like a stone lodged in my lungs. The doctor says it's stress, but stress doesn't feel like something you can just breathe through—it feels like a hand closing slowly around your ribs. Life passes in a blur, each day sinking deeper, as though I'm being pulled into a bottomless pit with no rope to grasp, no light to follow.
I stood at the window, a cup of coffee in hand, watching the steam curl upward into the dim air. The bitter scent lingered faintly, sharp against the stale silence of the house. Outside, heavy clouds hung low, pressing down like a lid, smothering what little light remained. It was late morning, but it could have been twilight. The air felt unnaturally still—so quiet that even the neighborhood dogs had stopped barking, as if they too sensed something amiss.
The quiet pressed in on me, filling my ears, seeping into my bones. At first, I thought it was peace, the kind of stillness people long for after storms and battles. But standing there, the longer I listened, the more it unsettled me. It was a silence that didn't soothe, but suffocated. The house was too quiet, far too quiet—like the breath being held before a scream, like the pause in a heartbeat before the next uncertain thud.
The coffee in my hand had already cooled, yet I hadn't taken a sip. My reflection in the window stared back at me—drawn, older than I remembered. I suddenly felt like an intruder in my own home, as if the walls were listening, as if something unseen was waiting.
And then it struck me: this silence wasn't ordinary.
It was not peace.
Not calm.
But a silence waiting—
for the storm that was about to come.