Locked Away

**April 1, 2024**

I don’t know when it started—this feeling that I’m being watched. At first, I chalked it up to paranoia. You know, just the usual stuff that comes with living in a big city, crowded trains, eyes everywhere. But today, something was different. The man across the street followed me. I’m sure of it. His gaze felt heavier, like he wasn’t just watching—I mean, *really* watching. He trailed behind at a distance, always just out of sight when I turned around, like a shadow that disappears when you shine a light.

I don’t know why I didn’t confront him. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it was real, that someone could actually be following me.

But when I got to the corner of 3rd and Oak, he stopped, stood still under the streetlight, and…smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. No. It was like he knew something. Something I didn’t. 

Who the hell was he?

I sped up, practically ran the rest of the way home, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. When I finally reached the door to my flat, I rushed inside, slammed it behind me, and double-locked it. Then I peered through the peephole, but the street was empty.

He was gone.

I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m not crazy. I’m not.

I’m being watched.

**April 3, 2024**

I told Elise about the man. She didn’t seem concerned. “You probably imagined it,” she said, laughing it off like I was telling some funny story. I wanted to scream at her, tell her that it wasn’t in my head, that I could *feel* it. 

But how do you explain that to someone without sounding like a lunatic?

Still, I kept my mouth shut. *Don’t tell anyone*, he said. *Don’t tell a soul, and we’ll both be safe*. 

Except I did tell someone. I told Elise. 

Now I’m wondering if I made a mistake.

**April 5, 2024**

I saw him again today. At the coffee shop. He was sitting two tables away, wearing that same suit, dark sunglasses, and a smirk that made my stomach twist. He wasn’t even drinking coffee—just sitting there, facing me. 

When I got up to leave, I saw him stand too. He didn’t follow me this time, but I knew. He wanted me to see him. Wanted me to know that he could find me wherever I went. That there’s no escaping him.

What does he want from me?

**April 6, 2024**

I found a note in my mailbox this morning. It wasn’t from the postman. No stamp, no address, just my name scrawled on the front in black ink.

“Meet me at St. Agnes Cemetery. Midnight. Come alone.”

I know I should ignore it, but I can’t. I feel like I’m caught in some kind of web, and the more I try to escape, the tighter it gets. Whoever this man is, he’s pulling the strings, and I’m the puppet dancing to his tune.

Midnight. St. Agnes. 

Am I crazy for thinking about going? Probably.

But what other choice do I have?

**April 7, 2024**

It’s done. I went to the cemetery.

It was empty when I arrived, just a sea of gravestones under a dark sky, the moon hiding behind thick clouds. I stood near the old chapel, waiting, half-expecting no one to show. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it was all in my head.

But then I heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

He emerged from the shadows, that same man in the suit, his face obscured by the darkness. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he handed me a small box—about the size of a shoebox, wrapped in plain brown paper.

"Don't tell anyone," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. 

Before I could respond, he turned and vanished into the night. Just like that.

I didn’t open the box. Not yet. It’s sitting on my kitchen table right now, taunting me, daring me to peek inside. I want to know what’s in it, but I’m afraid. Afraid of what it might mean.

I’ll open it tomorrow. Maybe.

**April 8, 2024**

I couldn’t wait. The curiosity was killing me. I opened the box this morning.

Inside was a key. An old-fashioned, brass key. No note, no explanation, just the key.

What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I turned it over in my hands, looking for some kind of clue, but there was nothing. It’s just a key.

Is this some kind of game? If it is, I don’t like it.

**April 10, 2024**

The key is for a locker.

I found the locker today, tucked away in the basement of an old train station downtown. Number 423. I stood in front of it for a long time, debating whether or not to open it. My gut was screaming at me to walk away, but I couldn’t.

I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Inside, there was another box, much like the first one, wrapped in the same brown paper. But this time, there was something else too. A photograph.

It was of me.

Taken last week, while I was walking home. I recognize the street, the clothes I was wearing. There was no mistaking it.

Someone has been watching me.

I grabbed the box and ran. I didn’t even lock the locker behind me.

Now I’m back home, the box sitting in front of me again, and I’m terrified to open it.

But I have to. Don’t I?

**April 11, 2024**

I opened it.

Inside, there was a letter. It was addressed to me, but not from the man in the suit. No, this was from someone else. 

The handwriting was familiar.

It was Elise.

I can’t believe what I read. Elise—my best friend, the one I confided in, the one who laughed when I told her I was being followed—she’s been part of it all along. 

The letter detailed everything: how she’d been watching me for months, how she knew things about my life that I hadn’t even told her. She wrote about secrets I had buried deep, things I thought no one knew.

There was one line that stood out to me the most:

“Meet me at the old house. You know the one.”

The old house. The one from our childhood. The one we swore we’d never return to.

I don’t understand why she’s doing this. What could she possibly want from me? And why now?

I don’t know if I can trust her. But I have to find out.

**April 12, 2024**

I went to the old house today.

It’s exactly as I remember it—broken down, abandoned, the windows boarded up, the garden overgrown. I hadn’t been there since we were kids. Elise and I used to play there, make up stories about ghosts and buried treasure. But then something happened, something I can barely remember. We stopped going, stopped talking about it. 

I never thought I’d set foot in that place again.

But there I was, standing in front of the door, my hand shaking as I pushed it open. The air inside was thick with dust and decay, the smell of something rotting.

I called out her name, but there was no answer.

I walked through the rooms, memories flooding back with every step. The creaky floorboards, the old fireplace, the staircase leading up to the attic.

That’s where I found her.

Elise was sitting in the middle of the attic, a small candle flickering beside her. She didn’t look up when I entered. She just sat there, staring at something in her hands.

“Why?” I asked, my voice trembling.

She didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

“We had to come back.”

I didn’t understand. “Come back to what? What are you talking about?”

She looked up then, her eyes full of something I couldn’t place—guilt, fear, regret. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

She stood up, walked over to the corner of the attic, and pointed to the floor. “Look.”

I hesitated, but then I saw it. The trapdoor. The one we used to pretend led to a secret tunnel, a place where we could hide from the world.

But it wasn’t pretend.

Elise opened the trapdoor, and the smell hit me like a punch to the gut. It was the smell of death.

And then I remembered.

We were kids, playing in the attic. It was raining outside, and we were bored. Elise found the trapdoor, and we opened it, climbed down into the dark space below. That’s when we found him—the man. He had been hiding there, or maybe he’d been locked away. I don’t know.

He was hurt, bleeding. He begged us for help. But we were scared. We didn’t know what to do. So we left him there.

We never told anyone.

I don’t know how long he survived, but eventually, he died. And we buried the memory along with him.

Until now.

“Elise…” I started,

 but she cut me off.

“We can’t keep running from it,” she said. “We have to face it.”

I wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, that it was all in the past. But deep down, I knew she was right.

We had to face the truth.

**April 13, 2024**

I’ve been thinking about what we did, about the secret we’ve kept all these years. It’s eating away at me. I can’t stop thinking about that man, about how we left him to die.

Elise says we need to confess, to tell someone. But I’m not sure I can. How do you admit something like that?

How do you tell the world you’re a murderer?

**April 15, 2024**

Elise is gone.

I went to her apartment this morning, but it was empty. No note, no explanation, just…gone.

I think she’s going to turn herself in. But if she does that, what happens to me?

I keep hearing her voice in my head, telling me we can’t run from the past. That we have to face what we did.

But I’m not ready to face it.

Not yet.

**April 16, 2024**

I can’t take it anymore. The guilt, the fear, the constant looking over my shoulder. It’s too much.

I’ve made a decision.

I’m going to the police.

I don’t know what will happen. Maybe they’ll arrest me, maybe they won’t believe me. But I can’t live like this anymore.

It’s time to tell the truth.

**April 17, 2024**

I went to the police station today.

But I didn’t go inside.

I stood outside the doors for what felt like hours, staring at them, willing myself to walk through. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to confess.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to be free of this burden, but at the same time, I’m terrified of what will happen if I tell the truth.

What if they don’t believe me? What if they think I’m crazy? What if they think I’m lying?

I don’t know what to do.

**April 18, 2024**

Elise turned herself in.

I found out this morning. The police came to my door, asking questions, wanting to know what I knew. They said Elise had confessed everything—the man, the attic, the secret we’d kept hidden for so long.

Now they’re asking me to do the same.

But I’m not ready.

Not yet.

**April 19, 2024**

I’m being followed again.

This time, it’s not the man in the suit.

It’s the police.