This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BS_Tip3808 on 2024-11-15 07:34:51+00:00.
My little sister, Emily, always loved keeping a diary. She had stacks of them, pastel covers with little locks, each one filled with messy handwriting and stickers. She used to guard them fiercely, threatening to tell on me if I so much as looked at them.
But Emily passed away three months ago.
She was only eleven. A freak accident at the lake—she fell in, hit her head on a rock, and drowned before anyone could get to her. The funeral was unbearable, and afterward, I couldn’t bring myself to touch her things. Her room remained untouched, like a shrine to the girl she used to be.
But last week, Mom asked me to start sorting through her belongings. I found her latest diary in the bottom drawer of her desk. It was unlocked.
I thought reading it might bring me some closure. I thought it would help me feel close to her again.
I was wrong
The first few entries were normal.
“Today we had pizza for dinner. I took two slices before Joey could get them all! He got mad, but I don’t care.”
That made me smile. Emily always loved teasing me. The next few pages were full of harmless ramblings—complaints about school, doodles of flowers and stars, lists of her favorite songs.
But then, about halfway through, the tone started to change.
“I saw the man again today. He was standing in the backyard, watching me through the window. I told Mom, but she said I was imagining things. He’s always there, though. I can feel him.”
The man?
I paused, flipping back through the earlier entries. No mention of him before. Maybe it was just Emily’s overactive imagination. She’d always been a little jumpy, a little too eager to believe in monsters under the bed.
I kept reading
“The man came closer last night. He tapped on my window. He didn’t say anything, just smiled at me. His teeth are so big. I wanted to scream, but I was too scared.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. Emily’s handwriting got messier with each entry, her words more frantic.
“He comes inside now. He stands at the foot of my bed while I pretend to sleep. He whispers my name. He says he’s waiting.”
Waiting for what?
I flipped to the last few pages, my heart pounding.
“Joey doesn’t see him. No one does. He told me not to tell. He said they wouldn’t believe me. He said I belong to him now.”
I stopped reading. My hands were shaking. This had to be some kind of prank, a made-up story Emily wrote to scare me. But the way she described it, the fear in her words—it felt real.
Too real.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the diary. I couldn’t shake the image of Emily, lying in bed, too terrified to scream while some stranger stood over her. I barely slept.
When I finally drifted off, I dreamed about her. She was standing at the edge of the lake, staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat.
And there was mud on my shoes.
I told myself it was nothing. Maybe I’d gone outside to clear my head and didn’t remember. But the next day, I found a page from Emily’s diary lying on my desk.
I hadn’t brought the diary upstairs.
The page wasn’t one I’d read before.
“He says Joey will come next. He says Joey will join me soon.”
My blood turned to ice.
That night, I locked my bedroom door. I tried to convince myself it was all in my head, that grief was playing tricks on me. But as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I heard it.
A tap.
Tap.
Tap.
On my window.
I didn’t want to look. I couldn’t. But something made me turn my head.
He was there.
A man, tall and thin, his face pale and stretched like wax. He smiled at me, baring rows of jagged teeth, and pressed a single finger to his lips.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
When I woke up, it was morning.
The window was locked. No sign of anyone outside. I almost convinced myself it was a dream, until I went downstairs and found another page from Emily’s diary on the kitchen table.
“He says it’s time. He says Joey belongs to him now.”
I haven’t slept since. I haven’t left the house. I keep hearing taps at the windows, whispers in the dark. Last night, I found muddy footprints leading from the lake to my bedroom door.
I think I understand now.
Emily didn’t fall.
She didn’t hit her head.
He took her.
And now, he’s coming for me.