DON'T TELL ANYONE

October 11.

It keeps following me. All the time. I've been feeling it for days now - this eerie sensation of being watched. This morning, an envelope slipped under my door. No name, no return address. Just a single line written in red ink: "Come to the garden on Elm at midnight. Don't be late."

My first thought was that it was a prank, maybe a mistake. But deep down, I knew it wasn't. I felt that same strange, heavy sensation in my chest - the feeling of being watched. Whoever's been following me wants me to come to this meeting.

I should ignore it.

It's driving me mad, circling in my head over and over. It doesn't make sense. Why would anyone ask me to meet them in a garden I've never visited? I don't leave this room. I can't leave this room. The thought of stepping outside makes my chest tighten like the poisonous air.

The walls aren't walls anymore; they're closing in, pressing closer each day, shrinking until no room is left. I can feel a slow constriction, like the tightening grip of a snake coiling around my chest.

It was there again. I felt its rancid and sour breath hovering just behind my neck, the cold seeping into my bones.

The buzzing - crawling under my skin, burrowing deep, an itch I can't reach - is maddening. I dug my nails into my arms again and tore at the skin until the blood flowed warm and sticky. It hurt, but I didn't stop. The red smeared against the white of the sheets like some twisted artwork. I laughed. I laughed because the pain reminded me I was still here - that I wasn't gone yet - not entirely.

But the blood, the warmth—it didn't last. It never does. The cold always comes back, dragging me under. I've spent the whole day staring at the envelope, trying to make sense of everything. What does he mean, Don't be late?

I opened the envelope earlier, but it only made things worse. Inside was a single photograph—a picture of me, taken through the window of my room. The timestamp showed it was taken two nights ago, right around when I started feeling like I was being watched. But my room doesn't have a window. It is still me in that photograph. But how?

October 12.

I didn't go. I don't know why. I sat here, staring at the clock, watching the minutes crawl by until midnight came and went. I couldn't move. My legs felt heavy like they were stuck to the floor. The envelope is still here where I left it, taunting me.

I can't shake the feeling that I wrote it. It's ridiculous. Why would I send something to myself? I checked my desk drawer where I kept my pens and paper, but they were all where I left them. Still, that handwriting is mine. I know it is. I just... I can't deal with that right now.

I didn't sleep last night. Or maybe I did; I can't tell anymore. The line between waking and dreaming has blurred into a haze, like thick and endless fog rolling in from the sea. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks. They're growing, splintering outwards like delicate spiderwebs. I wonder if they'll reach me, if they'll come down in shards of plaster and dust, burying me alive.

I wouldn't mind.

When I close my eyes, I see it clearer now. The dark mass, the shape it takes, God, it's horrific. It's all wrong. Its body is twisted, its limbs are too long, joints are bent at impossible angles, and the skin is slick and black like oil, dripping. And its face... or what should be a face. It shifts, twisting like clay, eyes forming then disappearing, mouths opening and closing, filled with rows of jagged teeth.

It stood at the foot of my bed last night. I felt it staring, even though there were no eyes. The weight of its gaze crushed me into the mattress. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. My heart pounded so loud I was sure it would burst out of my chest. I could feel it feeding off that fear, growing stronger, reveling in my helplessness.

October 13.

I didn't take the pills today. They're trying to poison me. I see it in their eyes when they hand them to me—their fake smiles stretched too thin. The red-haired one, she's the worst. She is always cheerful. She thinks I'm too far gone to notice. But I do. I notice everything.

She came by earlier. I didn't like the way she looked at me. Like I'm an animal. I smiled back at her and watched her flinch. She thinks I'm docile, but she doesn't know. She doesn't know what's been following me. What's been whispering in my ear?

The envelope's still here, on the nightstand, staring at me. Why can't I stop thinking about it? Why can't I just let it go? The Garden on Elm... it's not real. I know that. I know I never wrote it. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I wonder. What if it's me? What if I've been sending these things to myself all along?

No. That's impossible.

I wouldn't do that.

I scratched at the walls today, tried to tear them down, and tried to escape. I could feel it closing in, but the walls wouldn't give. My fingers bled, my nails broken, but the walls held firm, cold, and unforgiving. I could hear it whispering through the cracks. I can't understand the words but know they're meant for me.

October 14.

The feeling was more vital and intense today. It’s getting closer and more aggressive. Every step I took, every corner I turned, was right there. The light stretches it out, twisting it longer and pulling it closer until I feel drowning.

I've feared so many things, but nothing like this. It started when I was a kid. My stepfather had this way of punishing me when I did something wrong. He'd shove me into the closet in the basement and lock the door. I can still hear the click of the lock—that final sound before the darkness swallowed me whole.

And I remember the worst day. The day it came.

It was one of the longest times he'd left me there overnight. I don't remember what I did to deserve it; the punishment lasted longer than usual. I screamed at first, banging on the door, but no one came. They never did. The darkness wrapped itself around me, smothering my cries. It was like a blanket of silence, pressing in closer and closer until the only sound I could hear was my own heartbeat, frantic in my chest.

The hunger came first, gnawing at my insides like a rat chewing through bone. Then, the thirst. My lips cracked, and every breath was dry and sharp. The need to go to the bathroom hit next, but I held it for hours, clutching my stomach, praying he'd let me out. But he didn't.

Eventually, I couldn't hold it anymore. The urine soaked into my clothes, warm and humiliating at first, then cold and stinking as it mixed with the damp, musty air of the closet. The smell filled the tiny space, suffocating me and burning my nose. I cried, not from pain but from the shame, the filth. And then, hours later, or maybe minutes, I don't know, that happened, too.

I had nowhere to go. I couldn't hold it. The shit pressed out of me, warm and sticky, and I felt it spread beneath me as I sat on the wooden floor. The smell was unbearable. My skin crawled with it, with the filth of my own body betraying me, trapped in that black hole of a closet.

And that's when I felt it.

I can still remember the exact moment. The darkness had changed. It wasn't just empty anymore; it was watching me. It was alive. The air had shifted and thickened like something had slipped into the closet with me. I froze, my body trembling, my throat dry and raw from screaming. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat like a drum, slow and sickening.

I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there. I could feel it hovering just out of reach—a presence. It wasn't like the darkness that had always terrified me; it was something far worse, something that was feeding on my fear, on the filth, on the weakness I had become.

That's when I first sensed it. Whatever it was, it had slipped into my world and has never left me.

October 15.

The nurses - they're scared of me now. I see it in their eyes, how they flinch when I move too quickly, and how they talk in hushed whispers just outside my door. They think I don't notice, but I do. The way they look at me, like I'm a rabid dog, something to be caged and kept away.

Good.

The reddish nurse came again today. Her smile is unnatural, stretched so tight it looks like it might split her face open. She handed me the pills. Blue ones this time. I took them from her and felt their weight in my hand, but I didn't swallow them.

I smiled back at her. Pulling the corners of my mouth up like that felt strange. My face was stiff, unused to the motion. I wonder if she noticed. I let the pills slip from my hand and watched them fall to the floor, bouncing once or twice before disappearing into the shadows. The shadows have been moving more lately, creeping across the floor like they're alive and hungry.

I like to watch her bend to pick it up.

Every time, her skirt hikes up just enough for me to see the curve of her thighs, the pale skin peeking out from beneath the hem. She does it deliberately; I know she does. She thinks I'm a vegetable, a shattered man with a broken mind, locked away inside my own head. She thinks I don't notice.

But she's wrong.

She doesn't know I'm not alone. I've never been alone.

So, she was honestly surprised when I knocked her to the floor.

It wasn't hard.

She's small, fragile. Her eyes widened, lips parting in shock as I grabbed her and shoved her down. Her breath hitched, a sharp air intake, and I could feel the excitement - the pulse of something dark and wild rushing through me.

It wasn't me.

It wasn't.

I wasn't in control.

It wasn't my fault.

It wasn't my fault.

I didn't want to hurt her. It wasn't me.

It was the thing that's been with me all along, the thing that's been watching now - waiting and feeding. It pushed me, whispered in my prank ear, and told me what to do. I didn't have a choice.

She cried out, but the buzzing in my head and the ticking clock muffled her voice. I could barely hear her. I could scarcely feel her anymore. Everything was slipping away, fading into the hum, into the dark.

It's inside me now. I can feel it crawling under my skin, controlling my wants and thoughts. It's too late. I can't stop it anymore.

I'm laughing again. I can't help it.

The sound bubbles up from deep inside me, harsh and cracked. It echoes off the walls, filling the room. The nurse looks up at me with wide, terrified eyes, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She doesn't understand.

She will.

They all will.

October 16.

I woke up choking on my own breath. It was standing over me, I swear. A dark mass, shifting, warping, like it was trying to decide what shape to take. My body was frozen. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. All I could do was watch as it hovered, staring, the cold of it seeping into my skin like ice. It didn't touch me. Not yet. But I couldn't feel it anymore - so close.

I've heard about sleep paralysis. The doctors like to throw that term around like it explains everything. But this was different. It wasn't a hallucination. It wasn't a dream. It was real. It was there, watching me with eyes that didn't exist.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. The laugh just bubbled up out of me, desperate, choking. I laughed because what else could I do? What else do you do when the thing following you for years finally finds its way into your room?

They put me in isolation after that. She said I was disturbing the others. I was screaming, they said. But I wasn't. It was the laugh. It's funny, really. It's funny how no one else sees it.

The lights flickered today. I counted the seconds between the flickers: three, then five, then eight, then one. Erratic. Like something was playing with the switch. It's toying with me now.

That's fine. Let it play its game.

I scratched at my arm until the skin broke. The nurses tried to stop me, but I didn't care. I needed to feel something. The pain is real. The blood is real. Thick, warm, dripping down my fingers. I let it pool in my palm for a moment, staring at warmth - it and watching it glisten in the pale light.

It's funny how thirsty you get. I tasted it. Just a little. Just enough to remember what it feels like to be alive. It tastes like metal, sharp and bitter, but it's mine. They found me after that and tried to patch me up, but they couldn't stop me from bleeding. They can't stop what's already inside me.

The buzzing is louder now. It's deafening.

October 17.

The walls... they're wrong today. I don't know how to explain it, but they feel different. The texture is off, as if the paint is peeling away to reveal something underneath. I scraped at the surface until my fingers bled again, nails tearing against the plaster. I had to know. I had to see what was underneath.

It was hollow. Behind the walls was nothing, just darkness, an endless void stretching out forever. I could feel the pull of it, dragging me in and whispering promises of relief and escape. But it's a lie. I know what's really waiting in that darkness. It's there, waiting for me to slip.

I won't. Not yet.

October 19

Everything is sharper today; the edges are too bright, too hard. The air smells of chemicals, bleach, ammonia, and something sweet and sickly. I gagged when I woke up, the stench clinging to my skin and the sheets. The buzzing in the light is louder than ever - a constant hum that vibrates through my teeth, rattling my bones.

I saw it again this morning. Not just a flicker. No, this time, it was there. Fully formed, standing in the corner, watching, waiting. Its face, oh God, its face, was mine. Twisted and distorted, like looking into a broken mirror, the features all wrong, stretched, eyes too big, mouth too wide, filled with jagged teeth.

I screamed. I screamed until my throat was raw, and my voice gave out, but no one came. No one heard me. They never do.

Do you hear that?

No, you don't. You're sitting there, comfortable, safe, reading this like it's just the ramblings of a madman. But you're wrong. It's not me that's crazy. It's you. You don't see it yet, but you will. You'll feel it soon enough. It's always there. Waiting. Watching. Lurking in the corners, just beyond the light.

I'm sorry for you. I really am.

You'll understand soon enough. You'll realize it's been watching you, too. It'll slip into your room and mind, just like it did with me.

And when it does, when you finally see your shadow, don't be stupid.

Don't be like me.

They won't believe you. And it'll only make it stronger.

Be clever.

Be silent.

Don't tell anyone.