The air smelled like rust and wet earth when Lila found the journal. She’d been digging through the attic of her grandmother’s house, searching for old photos, when her fingers brushed against the leather cover. It was cracked, the edges frayed, but the brass clasp still held. She pried it open, and the pages whispered as they turned.
The writing was jagged, hurried. *They’re watching. The walls bleed. Don’t trust the bell.* Lila’s pulse quickened. Her grandmother had never mentioned a bell. Or walls that bled. She flipped to the next page, her breath catching at the sketch—a face, distorted, with too many eyes.
Outside, the wind howled. A storm had rolled in overnight, turning the gravel road into a river. Lila’s phone buzzed. Jace’s name flashed on the screen. He’d been waiting for her at the diner, but she’d forgotten. Again.
“You’re late,” he said when she slid into the booth. His dark eyes flicked to the journal in her hands. “What’s that?”
“Found it in the attic.” She opened it to the sketch. “This doesn’t make sense. Who draws a face like this?”
Jace leaned forward, his voice low. “You remember the old man who lived on Willow Road? The one who vanished?”
Lila nodded. The town had whispered about him for years—Mr. Voss, a reclusive teacher who’d disappeared without a trace. “His house was boarded up. No one goes near it.”
“Maybe we should.” Jace’s grin was sharp, dangerous. “You think this is a coincidence? A journal with a sketch of a monster and no explanation?”
The diner’s door jingled. A man in a trench coat stood in the threshold, his face obscured by the brim of his hat. Lila froze. The air felt heavier, as if the storm had followed him inside.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the man said, his voice a rasp. “The veil’s thinning.”
Jace’s hand went to his pocket, where he kept a pocketknife. “Who the hell are you?”
The man stepped closer, and Lila saw the scar running from his temple to his jaw—a jagged line, like a wound that hadn’t healed. “I’m the last one who tried to stop it. And you’re next.” He turned, disappearing into the storm before Lila could react.
That night, Lila and Jace huddled in his car, the journal between them. Rain lashed the windows as they pored over its pages. The entries grew more frantic, describing a ritual, a door that opened only once a year, and a price paid in blood.
“This isn’t just a story,” Lila said. “It’s a warning.”
“Then we find the door,” Jace said. “Before someone else dies.”
They found it at dawn, hidden behind the diner’s storage room. A rusted iron door, its surface etched with symbols that glowed faintly in the dim light. Lila pressed her palm to it, and the air shivered. A low hum filled the space, like a heartbeat.
“What happens if we open it?” she asked.
Jace didn’t answer. He yanked the door open, and the world tilted. The storm outside died, replaced by a hollow silence. The air reeked of decay, and the ground was littered with broken things—shattered mirrors, twisted metal, remnants of something that had been torn apart.
“This is where he went,” Lila whispered. “Mr. Voss.”
A voice echoed from the darkness. *You shouldn’t have come.*
They turned, but the space was empty. Only the hum remained, growing louder, more insistent. Lila’s fingers tightened around the journal. “We need to leave. Now.”
Jace nodded, but as they backed toward the door, the shadows shifted. Shapes emerged—figures with elongated limbs and hollow eyes. They moved without sound, their forms flickering like smoke.
“Run,” Jace said.
They sprinted, the creatures close behind. Lila’s lungs burned as they burst into the diner’s parking lot, the storm raging again. The door behind them vanished, swallowed by the void.
The next morning, the town was quiet. No sign of the creatures, no mention of Mr. Voss. But Lila kept the journal, its pages now blank. The entries had faded, as if they’d never existed.
Jace called her that afternoon. “You still have it?” he asked, his voice strained.
“It’s gone,” she said. “But I remember.”
A pause. Then, “So do I.”
The storm had passed, but the veil remained, thin and taut, waiting for the next mistake.
