I found a journal in my new house. It’s all old and crinkly, like everything in my room, and there’s a couple of pages missing. I found a working old-timey pen, so I’m gonna write something. I’m not sure about what exactly, so I guess I’ll write about where I moved. I live in Farnford, in a new house, the house where I found this journal. Well, that’s a bit obvious. I wonder what kind of things I’ll find here.

 So, Farnford’s a cool place, I guess. It’s late afternoon now, and the rain is falling quiet. That sounds poetic! It’s been thundering since I’ve been here. I forgot how long I’ve been here actually. Huh. Well, I think I’ll take a look around this place. I’ve only been in a second-story bedroom. How did I get here without seeing the rest of the house? I think my memory’s going. I need to figure out what’s going on here.

 I’m in the doorway, and I can see two closed doors, one on the wall next to me, and one on the opposite wall. I don’t know whether to open them or not. The bathroom is crawling with bugs! I shut the door, and it traps all of them in. Good.

 I’m scared to open the next door, on the opposite wall. It’s a bedroom, and it looks really old. Like, there’s so much dust, it’s hard to breathe. It looks really vintage, with a moth-eaten quilt, a scratched up desk with engraved patterns on the feet, and a stained-glass lamp. It’s pretty, despite that. A rock came in through the window, and I screamed. I probably shouldn’t have done that, because when I looked out the window, I saw a figure run into the bushes. I’m crouching down and looking out the window, but whoever did that, I can’t see them.

I don’t know what’s happening. I think I’ll keep writing, because if I die, the person that finds this journal will know what happened to me.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.

I’ve opened the sliding door, and I can see a staircase now.

It leads down into a foyer, and the front door is covered with boards. To my right is another door; old and dirty, and there’s strange humming coming from it. I don’t feel like I should open it. Not yet.

There are boxes next to the staircase, and I can’t see above them to the next room. I pushed them over, and they fell over, empty

There’s a kitchen and a dining room, with a large curtain over the wall to my left. A small table with four chairs sits in the middle of the room, with a vase of dead daisies. They make me feel sad, but I don’t know why.

I heard a scream from upstairs! It sounds familiar, but I can't place it. I’m really scared. I piled the boxes back up, just in case. Everything in the kitchen is empty. Some of the cabinets are open; seeming like someone looked through them. I opened the big curtain, and there’s a room with a couch covered in blankets and pillows, an unboarded window, and a piano. I’m sitting on the couch; I need to rest a little. Closing the big curtain is probably a good idea. I heard something outside, so I locked the window and pulled the drapes. It’s scratching at the window, but I’m keeping quiet.

There’s someone in the kitchen. I heard the same scream from before, and so I’ve decided I’m getting out of this house. There’s something seriously wrong. Maybe someone is playing a tape? Why am I here?

I unlocked the window and went outside. It’s still raining and thundering outside. It’s been an hour, but it still isn’t sunset. I saw a fence, and I easily climbed it. I walked out on the lawn, down the driveway, but there seems to be an invisible barrier around the house. I can see the rest of the neighborhood, but I can’t leave. The patio has two chairs and a table, and the front door is still boarded up. The cold and rain are getting to me. I’m going to get a blanket from the room with the couch.

I went back to the window. It’s locked, and the drapes are pulled. Who’s in the house? What are they doing!

I went around the side yard, and there don’t seem to be any unboarded windows on the first floor. The old bedroom’s window was reachable, there’s a climbable tree next to it. I threw a rock to break the window, and someone screamed. It was my scream. The scream I heard over and over. I threw the rock, I screamed, I locked the window. A feeling’s coming over me, but I’ve never felt it before.

I feel something in the garage, like I feel something in the back of my head, a throbbing pain dragging me towards the garage. The door is rising. I can’t stop walking towards it. The re ’ s   a s plit tin g   p ai  n  i n    my h e  ad it HU R   TS, i t H U   R T S!

I feel calm all a sudden. I see the dark, dizzying rip in the walls of the garage, but I’m not scared. I know the cycle has to repeat; it’s really inevitable. I’m going inside. These pages have no use for me now, so I’m ripping them out, and they fall on the stack of papers from the previous cycle on the floor. Goodbye, I guess.

I found a journal in my new house. It’s all old and crinkly, like everything in my room, and there’s a couple of pages missing. I found a working old-timey pen, so I’m gonna write something. I’m not sure about what exactly, so I guess I’ll write about where I moved. I live in Farnford, in a new house, the house where I found this journal. Well, that’s a bit obvious. I wonder what kind of things I’ll find here.