This page should not exist.
And yet, here you are.
---
> I don't remember picking up the pen.
I don't remember this ink.
I don't remember being me anymore.
---
The diary wrote itself again last night.
I heard the pages turning, but there was no wind.
I heard chanting, but no voices.
And then came a soundโ
Like something chewing through thought.
I awoke with blood in my mouth.
And this entryโฆ already half-written.
---
๐ The text is breathing.
Every paragraph inhales before I read it.
Every line exhales dread I can't place.
Even when I close the book, the words hover in my vision, like burnt film negatives.
I tried not to read today. I tried.
But it whispered from the floor:
> "You need to know what's beneath the sealing."
"The root never dies. Only the leaves."
---
โฐ๏ธ Update: The Chamber is quiet now.
We sealed it.
We followed the scripts hidden beneath Bhantaragya's original hymnsโthose fragments scratched into bone, found buried beneath his inverted shrine.
We chanted the Eightfold Silence, reversed the death-prayers, and offered the last of our blood into the urns etched with suffering.
We burned what could burn.
We buried what could bury.
We sealed what could be sealed.
But three of us died during it.
One of them laughed as her skin flayed itself.
The other two tried to gouge out each other's tongues, screaming that Bhantaragya was "in the syllables."
Now only two of us remain.
Myself... and her.
She doesn't speak anymore.
She just draws circles over and over, whispering in a language older than memory.
---
๐ And still, this diary writes.
> "You were never sealing a door.
You were building a window."
---
I tried to destroy it again.
This time I threw it into the pyre, the last of the sacred fire used to cauterize Bhantaragya's presence.
The fire died.
The flames curled away from the pages, like afraid children.
When I opened the book again, it had written something in a language I've never studied, but I understood perfectly.
> ๐ You are the final vessel.
๐ Your thoughts are the final script.
๐ Your belief is the final binding.
---
๐ There is someone behind me now.
No, not a person.
A silence with shape.
It follows wherever I move.
Last night, it whispered:
> "Bhantaragya is not a name.
Bhantaragya is a mirror."
---
๐ณ And nowโฆ to you, reader.
Yes, you. Still here. Still breathing. Still pretending you're separate from this.
Let me ask you:
Have you dreamed of a staircase made of flesh lately?
Have your mirrors blinked back?
Have you ever woken up and felt like your hands were writing something in your sleep?
Then you're already marked.
You've read the forbidden mantra spread between the lines.
Your eyes have turned the lock.
Your mind is the keyhole.
---
> ๐ To end this story, you must forget it.
๐ To survive, you must finish it.
But no one finishes Bhantaragya.
They only become another footnote in his scripture.
---
I am coughing again.
The blood is dark. Too dark. It smells like rust and old chanting.
I'm seeing faces in the walls.
Not hallucinations.
Memories that do not belong to me.
I think I'm remembering Bhantaragya's life.
Orโฆ maybe mine is being rewritten in his.
There's a sound now.
Like the page isโฆ humming.
No. Growling.
---
If you hear a knock tonightโ
Don't answer.
If your lights flicker when you sleepโ
Don't blink.
And if you hear your name in the silenceโ
It isn't your name anymor
e.
---
> โ๐๐ฃ๐ฉ๐ง๐ฎ 39 ๐ฌ๐๐ก๐ก ๐๐ค๐ข๐ฅ๐ก๐๐ฉ๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐๐ง๐๐ก๐.
โ๐๐๐๐ง๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ก๐ก ๐๐ ๐ฃ๐ค ๐ฌ๐๐ง๐ฃ๐๐ฃ๐.
โ๐๐๐ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ก๐ก ๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ฎ๐ค๐ช.
---