The fog pressed against the edges of the old farmhouse like a living thing. Every window swallowed the weak evening light, and the wind carried whispers that weren’t entirely the wind.
Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of damp wood and old paper. A diary lay on the floor, its leather cover cracked and warm under someone else’s touch — though no one had been here.
Eleanor bent down. Her fingers hovered above it, hesitant. The house groaned behind her, each creak like a warning. She opened the diary. The first page was dated tomorrow.
A cold shiver crawled up her spine.
The words were in her handwriting, perfect loops and lines she would recognize anywhere, yet they described events that hadn’t happened.
“I will hear a knock at midnight. I will answer it. The fog will crawl inside with me.”
She blinked. The fog outside shifted, heavy, curling like smoke around the gnarled trees. The diary vibrated slightly under her fingers.
A tapping sound echoed behind her — soft, deliberate. Tap… tap… tap… Eleanor froze, every instinct screaming. She spun, eyes straining through the dim hallway, but it was empty. Only the wind. Or was it?
She flipped the page. Another line, another premonition:
“I will see myself reflected where no mirror exists. I will not recognize what I see.”
The hairs on her arms stood on end. A window at the far end rattled. Shadows stretched across the walls, long and thin. Eleanor’s pulse pounded in her ears. Tap… tap… tap…
She snapped the diary shut and clutched it. She had never felt this kind of fear, the gnawing panic that slipped into bones and refused to leave. The fog pressed closer, outside the walls, yet she felt it inside too — cold fingers brushing her neck.
A whisper: “Read me.”
Eleanor froze. The sound came from the diary itself. Her hands shook. Slowly, she opened it again. The next page was dated the day after tomorrow.
“I will hear a voice calling my name, soft and sweet. I will follow it. I will regret it.”
A soft sigh brushed past her ear. The diary trembled. Eleanor staggered back, tripping over the rug. The lights flickered. Tap… tap… tap…
The sound moved closer. Not outside the door. Not in the hallway. Beneath her feet. From the floorboards.
She knelt and pressed her ear to the wooden planks. A whisper curled through the cracks: “Don’t fight it. Come.”
Eleanor recoiled, but curiosity burned brighter than fear. She had to see. She had to know. She opened the diary again. Pages fluttered as though caught in an invisible wind. Each new page predicted events she couldn’t possibly know.
“I will find the attic door open. I will climb the stairs even though I shouldn’t.”
Tap… tap… tap…
The attic stairs loomed above her. Dust motes swirled in the weak light like tiny spirits. Eleanor’s feet moved before her mind could protest. The diary pressed against her chest, warm and alive.
Every step up the stairs creaked like a scream. Shadows pooled at the edges of the walls. A crow cawed somewhere far off, muffled through the fog. Tap… tap… tap…
At the attic door, she hesitated. Her reflection glimmered in a small pane of glass embedded in the door. For a heartbeat, she saw herself blinking — then the blink wasn’t hers. The reflection smiled when she didn’t.
Eleanor’s breath caught. Her reflection mouthed words she didn’t speak. Tap… tap… tap…
She pushed the door open. The attic smelled of old blankets and winter decay. A single lamp lay on the floor, swinging slowly, though no one had touched it. Shadows shifted around it like they were alive. The diary fell open in her hands.
“I will see myself in the corner of the room, but not as I am. I will not remember how I got here.”
A sudden knock made her jump. The lamp swung violently. Tap… tap… tap…
Eleanor froze. The knocking seemed to come from all around her now — the ceiling, the walls, the floor. And then, just a single, deliberate knock at the attic window.
She turned. Mist pressed against the glass, shaping itself into a familiar figure. Her own face stared back at her from outside, pale and wet, eyes wide. Tap… tap… tap…
The diary shook in her hands. The page had changed. Words scrawled themselves as if the pen were moving on its own:
“It is already here. You are already there. You are nothing now.”
Eleanor’s heartbeat thundered. She dropped the diary. It landed open, pages fanning like wings. Each page reflected a new terror: her own movements described before she made them. Her thoughts written before she thought them. Her fears spelled out before she realized them.
She backed away. Tap… tap… tap…
The window face pressed closer. She saw a hand reach toward the glass. Not a reflection — a hand that belonged to her twin she never had. Or perhaps a twin she had lost to some fractured memory. The diary called again: “Come to me.”
The fog seeped through the cracks of the window and door. The attic smelled of rain-soaked earth. Eleanor’s own shadow stretched unnaturally, twisting behind her. Tap… tap… tap…
She grabbed the diary and ran down the stairs. Each step threatened to swallow her. The house groaned. Tap… tap… tap…
She reached the hallway. Every mirror, every polished surface, reflected not her, but a version that shouldn’t exist. One blinked when she didn’t. One smiled when she screamed. Tap… tap… tap…
The diary forced itself open again. Pages flipping furiously. Eleanor stumbled backward. The words read:
“The front door is locked. You will find no escape. The fog will enter your dreams, and you will wake only to find yourself inside yourself.”
She screamed. The hallway stretched impossibly long. Doors appeared where they weren’t before. Tap… tap… tap…
A whisper curled into her ear: “You are already tomorrow. You are already dead to yourself.”
Her eyes darted to the diary. The last page had a single line, written in heavy, urgent strokes:
“Look behind you.”
She spun. The fog inside the house was no longer outside. It was coiling in the hallway, thick and cold. And inside it, her reflection walked freely. Her reflection — her twin self — moved, reaching for the diary. Tap… tap… tap…
Eleanor’s scream echoed through the empty house. The diary flipped open once more, showing one final prediction:
“It will end the way it began. You will blink. You will see yourself disappear.”
The reflection lunged. The fog swallowed Eleanor whole. Silence followed. Only the faint ticking of the old house remained. Tap… tap… tap…
Morning broke over the misty countryside. Sunlight spilled weakly across the fields. The farmhouse appeared still, peaceful. Birds called faintly. The diary lay on the floor, open to today’s date — blank.
A single, wet fingerprint smudged across the leather cover.
And on the attic window, faintly, a smiling face pressed against the glass. Not hers.
Tomorrow’s words had already been written — and someone was waiting to read them first.
