Dear Diary,

– late. windy.

Maybe I’m just weird. Or maybe something is happening, I just don’t know what it is yet.

Nothing has changed here at home. Richard still stomps around like the whole house belongs to him. Like we’re trespassing in our own lives. He’s been watching me more lately—those quick sideways glances he thinks I don’t notice. I keep my bedroom door locked, but that doesn’t stop the feeling. Sometimes it’s like the air itself is waiting for him to push through it.

Mum keeps pretending everything’s normal. She hums when she’s scared. She’s been humming a lot.

But the strangest part… the part I’m almost afraid to write down… is that the thing watching me doesn’t always feel like Richard.

There’s something else. Something I can’t see.

At night, when the house gets quiet and the fridge stops buzzing, I feel it near me. Not right next to me—more like hovering above, or behind, or inside the walls. It’s colder than fear but not sharp like danger. It’s just there, like a shadow that isn’t connected to anything.

Sometimes my dreams feel like messages, like someone’s trying to get close enough for me to hear them. Last night I felt a hand brush my hair—light, careful—like it was trying not to wake me. I sat straight up in bed, but no one was there. The room felt full anyway.

And the worst part is…I didn’t feel scared.

I should have. Any normal person would have.

But instead I felt…seen .Like whatever is following me has been doing it a long time.

Maybe longer than I’ve been alive.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why these things feel familiar, like a memory I should have but don’t.

But something is shifting. Getting closer.

If I stop writing suddenly, it’s because Mum needs help with dinner. Or because the house creaked again. Or because the thing in the walls is moving.

Catch you later,

—W