The storm doesn't stop. It claws at Crestwood High like it wants to rip the walls down. Sirens wail, lights flash, and rain makes everything slick and raw. Students huddle under umbrellas, faces pale and dripping, their whispers cutting through the downpour.
Emily forces herself to look at the white sheet on the ground.
It's too small to hide the truth. Blood soaks through, staining the edges a dark crimson the rain can't wash away.
A teacher's voice trembles through the chaos:
"Jake Harper… he's—he's gone."
Emily's lungs seize. The sound of her own heartbeat drowns everything else. Jake—the boy who just yesterday had laughed and tossed his football in the hall—wasn't supposed to end like this.
The crowd gasps. Someone cries. Someone else films.
But Emily feels something no one else can.
(The diary, hidden in her bag, is pulsing against her books. Hot. Alive. Like it's feeding on the moment.)
---
As the police push the students back, a hand touches Emily's shoulder—firm but gentle.
"Emily."
She turns. Ms. Carter, her literature teacher, is standing beside her. Raindrops run down her glasses, but her eyes are steady, fixed on Emily as if she's the only one here.
Ms. Carter has always been like that—lingering after class to ask how Emily's doing, slipping her encouraging notes on essays, looking at her longer than at other students, as though she *knew* Emily carried more than she let on.
Now, with the storm raging and chaos swelling, Ms. Carter lowers her voice:
"I know this is… unbearable. But you're stronger than you think. Don't let this place, or what happened tonight, swallow you whole. You hear me?"
Emily swallows hard, trying to nod, though her throat burns. Ms. Carter squeezes her shoulder once more, then guides her toward the buses where students are being sent home.
And for the briefest moment—just before Emily leaves—she feels a strange comfort. Like Ms. Carter has always been there, quietly guarding her.
She doesn't know this will be the last real comfort she'll ever get from her teacher.
That night, she doesn't turn on the lights. The world outside is still storming, but her room feels worse—thicker, heavier, as if it's holding its breath.
The diary waits on her desk, faintly glowing in the pale moonlight.
She tells herself not to touch it. Not again.
Her hand disobeys.
She flips it open. The pages are blank at first—then ink blooms across the paper like spreading veins:
"The first has fallen. The next choice is yours."
Emily's throat dries. "I didn't choose anything," she whispers.
She snatches a pen and scrawls in the margin:
"What are you? What do you want from me?"
The ink answers instantly, jagged and sharp:
"I want what is owed. Tomorrow, someone close to you will pay."
Her blood runs cold. Lily.
She slams the diary shut.
But when she glances back—
—it's open again.
Fresh words writhe across the page, curling like smoke:
"Her blood will be on your hands."
Emily stumbles backward. Her desk lamp flickers even though it isn't on. Shadows in the room twitch and stretch, too long, reaching toward her like hungry fingers.
Her phone buzzes, snapping her out of it. A notification. Relief surges—maybe Lily.
But it's just the Crestwood class group chat.
Hands trembling, she types:
"Lily, are you okay?"
No reply.
Silence.
Then—
(Knock. Soft. Against the window.)
Emily freezes. Rain streaks the glass, but through the darkness outside… nothing. Just the storm.
Thunder rips the sky open.
And when the flash fades, the diary glows brighter.
Emily presses herself against the wall, shaking, as the words burn across the page like a curse:
"Her blood is already calling."
She can't scream. She can only watch as the ink bleeds deeper into the paper, as if the diary itself is alive—waiting.
Emily's phone buzzes again. Her heart leaps — a reply.
Lily.
Relief hits her so hard it makes her dizzy. She fumbles to unlock her phone, whispering, "Thank God…"
The chat opens.
At first, it's just a message bubble. A screenshot.
She clicks it, expecting a meme, a "I'm fine, don't worry."
Instead, the Crestwood Gazette's logo fills her screen. The headline makes her stomach cave in:
"Local Teacher Dies in Tragic Accident — Beloved Literature Instructor, Ms. Evelyn Carter, Found Dead."
Emily's throat tightens. She can't breathe.
Lily's text follows, frantic, written in all caps:
"EMILY?? IT'S MS. CARTER. DID YOU SEE THIS??"
Her vision blurs. She stares at the article photo — Ms. Carter smiling faintly, the same warmth in her eyes she saw just hours ago when she'd told Emily she was stronger than she thought.
Her hands shake so badly the phone slips from her grip and clatters onto the floor.
The diary flips open on her desk by itself.
Fresh ink burns into the page:
"Relief is an illusion. Everyone you trust will fall."
The lamp flickers. The shadows bend toward her. And somewhere outside, under the roar of thunder, she swears she hears a woman's voice whisper her name.
Emily.
Her knees buckle.
The screen of her phone glows up from the floor, the article headline searing back at her through the darkness.
(Fade to black. Chapter ends with Emily curled against the wall, trembling, the diary pulsing faintly — as if satisfied.)