THE JOURNAL

continued

That night, after the bustle of the day had settled into a hushed lull, Nick found himself once more drawn to the journal. The air in the room felt charged with an uneasy tension, as if anticipating the revelation that awaited him. He took his vitamins mechanically as he turned the pages of the journal, he noticed a subtle shift in its demeanor. The words “Bird, water, sun” greeted him in a script that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light. His brow furrowed in perplexity. These words, he was certain, had not adorned the journal’s pages before. Their appearance now, unbidden and enigmatic, cast a shadow of disquiet over his thoughts. He rubbed his eyes wearily, half-expecting the words to fade into obscurity as a trick of tired eyes or an overactive imagination. Yet, they remained steadfastly present, their significance eluding him like a fleeting dream upon waking. Nick pondered the implications of this latest revelation. The journal, once a benign artifact of happenstance, now seemed imbued with a sinister agency of its own. The words, innocent in their simplicity, resonated with an unsettling potency. They whispered of unseen currents, of forces beyond his comprehension. A chill crept down his spine, the realization dawning upon him with chilling clarity. The journal, with its cryptic messages, held sway over events in ways he could not begin to fathom. Closing the journal with a sense of trepidation, Nick retreated into the solitude of his thoughts. He locked the journal again and made it double sure that it remains locked away and that only he has the key.

As Nick arrived at his office that day, the usual hum of activity seemed muted, as if veiled by an unseen shroud of foreboding. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the corridors, a solitary figure navigating through the semblance of normalcy that masked the tumult within. Entering his workspace, he was met with a scene that further unsettled his already fragile equilibrium. Two of his colleagues stood huddled by a window, their expressions drawn with concern. In their hands, cradled gently like a fragile relic, was a robin — its once vibrant plumage now dulled, its breaths labored and fleeting.

“The bird... it’s not doing well,” one of the colleagues murmured, their voice tinged with regret. “The heat today, it’s too much for it.”

Nick approached quietly, drawn by a morbid curiosity that mingled with an innate compassion. His heart sank as he observed the bird’s struggle, each breath a laborious testament to the frailty of life. In that moment, time seemed suspended, as if the fate of this small creature held the weight of the world. Instinctively, Nick reached for his water bottle, fingers trembling imperceptibly as he uncapped it with deliberate care. A few drops trickled onto the bird’s parched beak, a futile gesture against the relentless march of mortality. He watched, helpless yet determined, willing the water to revive what little spark of life remained. But fate, it seemed, had already charted its course. The robin’s feeble struggles ceased, its eyes closing in a final surrender to the inevitability of death. A profound silence descended upon the room, broken only by the hushed breaths of onlookers and the distant hum of office activity. A tear traced an unbidden path down Nick’s cheek, its solitary descent mirroring the solemnity of loss that enveloped him. In that poignant moment, grief transcended the boundaries of species, binding him to the bird in a shared lament for the fragility of existence.

As he turned away, the weight of the journal’s unsettling prophecies bore down upon him with renewed force. The inexplicable synchronicity of events gnawed at his rational mind, challenging the very foundation of his understanding. What unseen forces governed these cruel twists of fate? Was he merely a hapless pawn in a game whose rules eluded even the keenest intellect? Nick’s work that day became a mechanical blur, his thoughts consumed by introspection tinged with existential dread. The boundaries between reality and illusion blurred, the mundane tasks of office life paling in comparison to the profound questions that now haunted his every waking moment. As evening cast its long shadows upon the office windows, Nick found himself inexorably drawn homeward.

As he returned home, the air hung heavy with an unspoken tension, a palpable sense of unease that clung to the familiar walls of his abode. The mundane tasks of daily life seemed trivial in the face of the ominous revelations that had gripped his thoughts since morning. No sooner had he stepped through the threshold than Oliver’s presence greeted him unexpectedly. A casual explanation about fixing a sink in need of repair fell from Oliver’s lips, punctuated by a genial smile that belied the gravity of Nick’s internal turmoil. “Your wife called me over,” Oliver remarked, his voice a measured contrast to the turmoil raging within Nick’s mind.

“Ah, thank you,” Nick managed, his words laced with a forced veneer of normalcy. “I’ve been meaning to tend to it. You’re a good friend.”

With Oliver’s departure, a sudden urgency seized Nick. His steps quickened, propelled by a primal instinct to confront the source of his growing apprehension. The journal lay in its place of concealment, its innocuous exterior now a harbinger of inexplicable dread. As he opened its pages, dread settled like a shroud over his consciousness. There, in stark crimson hues that defied reason, were the words: bird, water, sun. The eerie transformation mocked Nick’s attempts at rationalization, plunging him deeper into a realm where reality and superstition converged in unsettling harmony. Locking the journal away felt like an act of defiance against an unseen adversary, a futile gesture in the face of a supernatural force that defied containment. The key, a fragile talisman of control, found its place securely upon Nick’s person, a symbolic gesture against the encroaching darkness that threatened to engulf his fragile sense of normalcy. Fear as a visceral companion in these uncertain hours, gnawed at the edges of Nick’s mind. His thoughts churned ceaselessly, grappling with the implications of a reality where prophecy supplanted reason. Hours stretched into a relentless procession of introspection, each moment fraught with indecision and mounting dread. his gaze lingered upon the locked drawer, a Pandora’s box of foreboding that beckoned him with its unspoken

revelations. What did the journal portend? Was it a conduit to the unseen threads of fate, or a cruel deception borne of an unraveling mind?

The silence of the night pressed in on Nick, broken only by the gentle snores of his sleeping wife. In the hushed hours after her slumber had taken hold, a familiar routine unfolded. Vitamins rattled in their plastic container, a nightly ritual of maintaining his health. Then, he drifted towards the drawer in the study, the one containing the source of his unease – journal. Tonight, a new entry stared back at him, black, stark and unsettling in its brevity: “Mailman, current, bell.” A cold dread tightened his gut. Mailman? Current? Bell? The words danced before his eyes, a cryptic premonition that sent shivers down his spine. Nick slammed the journal shut, the sound echoing in the stillness like a gunshot. His fingers fumbled with the lock, the need to secure the horrifying knowledge within a desperate plea for control. He checked it once, twice, the need for certainty a gnawing ache in his chest. Sleep, a blessed oblivion, was a distant dream. He tossed and turned, the cryptic message replaying in his mind like a broken record. Dawn arrived, unwelcome and pale, mirroring the bleakness that had settled in his gut. As he lay there, a thought struck him, sharp and sudden – the doorbell! Could that be the link, the one detail that held the key to averting the impending doom?

He was out of bed in a flash, his heart hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs. The doorknob turned beneath his trembling grasp, and he rushed outside, the cool morning air a shock to his system. In his hand, he clutched a voltage tester. With shaking hands, he probed the doorbell, the digital display flashing a harsh red – faulty. Relief, sweet and unexpected, washed over him. He fixed the wiring with trembling fingers, a silent prayer on his lips. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had cheated fate.

The shrill ring of the doorbell shattered the fragile peace. Nick flung open the door, his heart leaping into his throat. There, standing on the porch, was the mailman, a cheerful grin plastered on his face. A wave of euphoria crashed over Nick. He had done it! He had defied the prophecy, averted disaster. The man, oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded, handed him the mail with a friendly greeting.

But the universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor. The echo of sirens, wailing in the distance, pierced the air a moment later. An irresistible pull, a morbid curiosity, drew Nick towards the sound. He hurried down the street, his steps quickening with each wail of the siren. The scene that greeted him was a tableau of horror – the mailman, sprawled on the sidewalk, a lifeless puppet contorted in a grotesque parody of life. A faulty doorbell of a neighbor’s house, a single touch of electricity, and life had been snuffed out like a candle flame. Back home, his hands trembled as he fumbled for the journal. The words that had been black before were now a chilling crimson – “Mailman, current, bell.” A strangled sob escaped his lips. The journal wasn’t a premonition, it was a chronicle of death, a morbid record of the inevitable. The

knowledge was a physical weight on his chest, suffocating him. He was trapped in a cosmic game of roulette, a helpless spectator to the necro play unfolding around him. Despair, thick and suffocating, threatened to consume him whole.

The weight of the mailman’s death pressed down on Nick like a physical object. Every rustle of the wind, every creak of the floorboards, sent shivers down his spine. Each night, he’d wake with a jolt, the journal a malevolent beacon on the nightstand, its blank pages a chilling promise of more horror. Then, the next morning, the words materialized, stark and black in the flickering morning light: “Mr. Brooks, ladder, fall.” Panic seized Nick. Mr. Brooks, the jovial owner of the bakery across the street, was notorious for his rickety old ladder. But how could he warn him without sounding like a raving lunatic? He spent the day in a state of nervous agitation, stealing glances across the street. Every time Mr. Brooks emerged from the bakery, Nick’s heart would leap into his throat. Finally, desperation won. He crossed the street, his mouth dry as sandpaper. Mr. Brooks, covered in flour, greeted him with a booming laugh. Nick stammered about the ladder, the words tumbling out in a jumbled mess. Mr. Brooks, bless his simple soul, simply patted him on the back and assured him, “Don’t you worry, son, this ladder’s been with me for twenty years! Sturdy as an oak!” Nick returned home. He pictured Mr. Brooks’ booming laugh, dismissing his concerns, and a cold dread settled in his stomach. He spent the day in a state of feverish anxiety. Every clang from the Brooks’ house across the street sent shivers down his spine. He couldn’t bring himself to look directly, the fear too paralyzing. Finally, as dusk painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, a commotion erupted. Shouts, gasps, and a sickening thud pierced the air. Nick’s heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird. He peeked out the window, a horrifying tableau unfolding across the street. People were gathered around the bakery entrance, their faces etched with shock. A crumpled figure lay sprawled on the ground, a bright red stain spreading beneath it. The rickety ladder lay in a twisted heap nearby. The air whooshed out of Nick’s lungs. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that it was Mr. Brooks. The image of the cheerful baker, forever frozen in death, gnawed at him. He had failed, but by being a prisoner of the fate?

The next day, the entry appeared, the black ink mocking him: “School bus, brakes, crossing.” His stomach lurched. The school bus stop was just a block away. Brakes failing? Children crossing? All afternoon, he paced his house like a caged animal. He couldn’t warn everyone who might be crossing the street. Should he call the school? The police? The absurdity of it all choked him. As the afternoon sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the street, he found himself drawn to the bus stop. Children milled about, chatting excitedly. The yellow school bus rounded the corner, slowing down for the stop. Just then, a ball bounced into the street, a small figure chasing after it. Time seemed to slow down. Nick’s voice, hoarse from disuse, ripped through the air, “Stop!” But it was too late. The screech of brakes mingled with a sickening thud. The small figure lay crumpled on the asphalt, a crimson stain blooming on the pavement. Grief, thick and suffocating, threatened to consume Nick.

The next morning breakfast toast stuck in Nick’s throat, a dry and unyielding lump mirroring the dread blooming in his gut. The stark black inscription in the journal mocked him: “Child, kite, street.” A child, a kite – a scene ripped straight from a childhood memory, one filled with laughter and the carefree joy of watching a brightly colored speck dance on the wind. But now, the image was twisted, infused with a chilling premonition. The park across the street, usually a canvas of vibrant life, became a potential death trap. His mind swarmed with possibilities – a runaway car, a reckless driver oblivious to a child engrossed in their game. Every gust of wind, every screech of brakes from the nearby street, sent a fresh jolt of panic through him. He spent the afternoon pacing his apartment, yearning to break free. Should he warn the parents? But warn them of what? “Beware of flying kites today?” The absurdity of it gnawed at him. He pictured their bewildered stares, their dismissal of his frantic ramblings. Was he going mad? Was this journal slowly poisoning his mind? The sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the park. Unable to bear the suffocating confines of his apartment any longer, Nick found himself drawn to the scene like a moth to a flame. Children, their faces flushed with exertion, ran through the park, their colorful kites soaring high above. Laughter mingled with the excited shouts of encouragement. He stood there, a silent observer on the periphery of their carefree world. A young girl, no older than eight, with fiery red braids and a determined glint in her eyes, stood out amongst them. Her kite, a majestic blue dragon with a fierce grin, danced playfully in the wind. It was a magnificent sight, a testament to her skill and the perfect conditions for a good old-fashioned kite fight. But with each soaring dip and playful tug, Nick’s anxiety intensified. He felt a desperate urge to intervene, to yank the string from her grasp and bring the dragon safely to earth. Yet, he remained rooted to the spot, a silent spectator paralyzed by fear and the ridiculousness of his premonition. Suddenly, a gust of wind, stronger than any before, ripped through the park. The girl’s kite, caught off guard, lurched violently. The string snapped with a sharp crack, sending the dragon careening out of control. It dipped, then rose again, propelled by the wind, on a direct trajectory towards the busy street beyond the park. Nick’s breath caught in his throat. A choked scream tore from his lips, a primal sound of terror and helplessness. But it was too late. The screech of brakes mingled with a sickening thud. The world seemed to slow down, the laughter of the children morphing into a horrified gasp. The girl, oblivious to the unfolding tragedy, stood frozen, her eyes following the flight of her runaway kite. Then, a wail of despair ripped through the air as the horrifying reality dawned on her. Nick sank to his knees, the weight of his premonition and his inaction a crushing burden. He had witnessed a childhood game turn into a nightmare, a vibrant life extinguished in a single, horrifying moment. The park, once a haven of laughter and carefree joy, now lay shrouded in a pall of despair, a stark reminder of his impotence in the face of fate’s cruel hand.

The world seemed to lose its color, the sounds of life muted and distorted. Back home, the journal lay open on the table. He slammed it shut, the sound echoing in the desolate silence of the study. Three days, three lives. The words echoed in his mind, a relentless drumbeat of despair. He wasn’t just a witness anymore. As he takes his vitamins, his breath came in ragged gasps, each one a searing reminder of his failure. The image of the red-haired girl, her innocent joy morphing into heart-wrenching despair, played on a loop behind his eyelids. The faces of

the boy and Mr. Brooks haunts him. Was he guilty? The question hammered at him, a relentless itch in the caverns of his skull. Had the journal, this malevolent harbinger of doom, cursed him with the power to see tragedy unfold, but not the power to prevent it? Or was he simply a hapless witness, condemned to watch life’s journey unravel in a grotesque display of mortality? Self-loathing, bitter and acrid, rose in his being. He pictured himself snatching the kite string from the girl’s grasp, the frantic glint in her eyes morphing into confusion, then perhaps even anger. Would that have saved her? Or taken Mr. Brooks’ ladder away? Or had his presence, fueled by the knowledge gleaned from the accursed journal, somehow twisted fate, turning a harmless game into a deadly dance with destiny? Doubt gnawed at him like a ravenous beast. Perhaps the journal wasn’t a premonition, but a twisted reflection of his own anxieties. Maybe by obsessing over the cryptic messages, he was inadvertently manifesting them, his very fear drawing misfortune like a moth to a flame. But the chilling logic of the entries mocked his desperate justifications. The mailman, electrocuted by a faulty doorbell he’d specifically checked. Mr. Brooks, falling from the ladder on the very day he’d tried, in his own bumbling way, to warn him. The image of the baker’s lifeless form, his jovial spirit extinguished, sent a fresh wave of nausea crashing over him. Was ignoring the journal the answer? Burying his head in the sand, pretending the premonitions didn’t exist? But could he, in good conscience, stand by and watch tragedy unfold without a whimper of protest? The thought of innocent lives snuffed out, of the world around him turning into a macabre stage play where he was a powerless extra, was unbearable. He cradled the journal in his trembling hands, its leather cover slick with sweat. Was it cursed? Was it a conduit to some unseen force that reveled in human suffering? Or was it simply a mirror reflecting the darkest corners of his own psyche, forcing him to confront the fragility of life, the ever-present ghost of death that lurked beneath the surface of every seemingly ordinary day? The questions swirled in his mind, a tempest with no anchor. One thing was certain – his life had been irrevocably changed. He was no longer just Nick, the quiet man with a fondness for routine. He was the keeper of a horrifying secret, a reluctant participant in a cosmic game where the stakes were life and death. The weight of this knowledge pressed down on him, a suffocating burden that threatened to consume him whole.