The Girl I Buried

Mara didn't touch the knife again. She left it on the kitchen floor, its rusty blade glinting in the flashlight's beam like a dare.

Her hands shook as she backed out of the room, the creak from the hall still ringing in her ears.

She told herself it was the house settling—old wood, old bones—but the sound had weight, a rhythm too close to footsteps.

She grabbed her jacket and retreated to the dining room, slamming the door behind her.

It didn't lock, but the thud felt final, a flimsy shield against whatever was shifting in the dark.

She sank into a chair, the flashlight trained on the door. The coffee sat forgotten in the kitchen, cold by now, and her stomach churned too much to care.

The knife—where had it come from? She'd hidden a butter knife, something useless, a placeholder to quiet Ellie's panic.

But that thing under the sink wasn't hers. It was too real, too worn, like it had a history she didn't want to know.

And the reflection—those wide, screaming eyes—haunted her every blink.

The house was silent again, but it was a lie. She could feel it watching her, waiting. She needed something to ground her, to make sense of this nightmare.

Her eyes fell on the photo album, still splayed on the floor, but she couldn't face that hollow-eyed girl again.

Instead, she turned to the boxes she'd dragged from the closet earlier. One was heavier than the rest, its cardboard sagging under the weight of something dense.

She pulled it closer, peeling back the flaps.

Inside were notebooks—dozens of them, spiral-bound, their covers faded to dull greens and blues.

Her diaries. She recognized her own messy scrawl on the labels: Mara, 1998. Mara, 1999. Her teenage years, spilled onto pages she hadn't touched in over a decade.

She'd kept them religiously back then, a habit born from loneliness after her mom died. Her grandmother had saved them, apparently, tucked away like relics.

Mara hesitated, then grabbed the one marked 1999. The cover was warped, stained with something dark—ink, maybe, or water.

She flipped it open, the paper crackling under her fingers. The entries started mundane: School sucks. Gran made pie again. Dad didn't call.

Her handwriting was jagged, full of angry loops and cross-outs. She skimmed ahead, looking for June—Ellie's timeline, if that's what it was.

The dates matched the summer she'd turned sixteen, stuck in this house with no friends, no escape.

Then the tone shifted. July 12th: Something's outside tonight. Keeps tapping the window. Gran says it's raccoons, but it's too loud.

Mara frowned, a vague memory stirring—nights spent peering through the blinds, seeing nothing but shadows.

She turned the page. July 15th: He's back. Tall, doesn't move right. I told Gran, but she didn't listen.

The words grew shakier, ink smudged like her hand had trembled. The shadow man knows my name.

Mara's breath caught. Shadow man. Ellie hadn't said that—masked man, she'd called him—but the echo was too close.

She flipped faster, pages blurring. July 20th: He's closer. Saw him by the shed, just standing there. Gran thinks I'm crazy. I'm not.

The next entry was a scrawl, barely legible: He's in the yard. I heard him whisper. Mara, Mara, Mara. I locked everything, but it's not enough.

She slammed the diary shut, her chest tight. This wasn't right. She didn't remember any of this—no shadow man, no whispers, no fear like that.

1999 was a dull ache, not a horror show. She'd have remembered a stalker, wouldn't she?

But the handwriting was hers, the details too specific—the shed, the yard—matching Ellie's frantic calls.

A memory flickered, unbidden: running through the house, bare feet slapping the floor, her heart pounding so hard it hurt.

A shape in the doorway, tall and still, burlap draped over its face. She gasped, the image slipping away as fast as it came, leaving her dizzy.

Was that real? A dream? She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to force it back, but it was gone, a ghost in her head.

The flashlight flickered, the beam stuttering across the room. Mara tapped it against her knee, cursing under her breath.

The batteries were new—she'd checked them before driving out here. It steadied, but the light felt dimmer, swallowed by the shadows pooling in the corners.

She opened the diary again, slower this time, and read the last entry she'd found: He's going to get in. I know it. I can't tell anyone—they won't believe me.

A soft thud sounded overhead, dust drifting down from the ceiling. Mara froze, her eyes darting to the attic hatch.

It came again—thud, thud—like something heavy shifting across the floorboards. The flashlight flickered once more, then held, illuminating the bolted hatch.

She waited, barely breathing, but the sound didn't repeat.

The diary slipped from her lap, landing open on the floor. In the margin, scribbled in a frantic hand she didn't recognize—or didn't want to—was a single line: He's already here.