THE JOURNAL

continued.

A cold, metallic resolve settled over Nick. All that remained was a burning need to purge himself of this accursed knowledge. The journal felt like a live coal searing his palm. Fire, that was the answer. Fire to cleanse, to obliterate the horrific visions that this wretched journal had led him to see, hell incarnate. He stumbled back to his study, legs leaden with a sense of dread that had become his constant companion. The matchbox felt heavy in his hand, each wooden stick a potential key to oblivion. Hesitantly, he extracted a match, the sulfur head a tiny beacon of defiance against the overwhelming darkness that threatened to consume him. But a shadow of doubt, a serpent coiling around his resolve, whispered in his ear. What if the journal wasn’t a curse, but a twisted form of guidance? What if, by destroying it, he was condemning himself to a future of helpless ignorance, forever a bystander to unfolding tragedies? The match trembled in his trembling fingers. Curiosity gnawed at him. Just one last look, he rationalized, a final confirmation of his decision. With a shaky hand, he flipped open the journal, the worn leather cover sighing like a weary soul.

The inscription stared back at him, stark and black, a death knell echoing in the silence of the room. “Son, Wife, Friend, Fire.” The words carved themselves into his mind, each letter dripping with a chilling inevitability. His breath caught in his throat, the match forgotten in his numb grip. Son. Wife. Friend. Fire. The seemingly innocuous words morphed into a grotesque painting of destruction. His son, his pride and joy, consumed by flames? His wife, the love of his life, reduced to ashes? A friend, a confidante, lost in a fiery inferno? The images assaulted his senses, a visceral depiction of the horrors that awaited him. The match slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor with a dull thud. The journal, once a source of innocent fascination, now felt like a malignant tumor he couldn’t excise. He collapsed onto the floor, a broken marionette with his strings severed. The weight of the knowledge, the terrifying responsibility it thrust upon him, was a crushing burden. He was trapped, a prisoner in a game where the only certainty was the relentless march of death, its fiery breath scorching his soul, torturing him.

His gaze darted around the room, finally settling on the framed photograph on the mantelpiece. His wife, Sarah, her smile as radiant as the sun, and their son, Aaron, eyes sparkling with mischief – a vision of domestic bliss now tainted by the inscription’s chilling premonition. Panic, a cold serpent, coiled around his heart. Today was Oliver’s night, his wife had invited best friend for dinner. The very thought of losing him sent another tremor through Nick. Fire. It had to be fire. The house, their haven, was surely destined to go up in flames.

He had to act. Desperation, a potent brew, fueled his actions. A frantic phone call to Sarah, a flimsy excuse about a “special surprise” dinner, the taste of ash clinging to his tongue as he spoke. Relief, fleeting and fragile, washed over him as she readily agreed. Maybe, just maybe, by taking them out, he could cheat fate. The restaurant, a brightly lit haven, a world away from the chilling premonition that gnawed at him. Laughter, forced and hollow on his part, contrasted with Sarah’s genuine joy and Aaron’s infectious enthusiasm.

With each bite, the image of flames dancing in his living room flickered behind his eyelids. But for now, they were safe. A twisted sense of accomplishment battled with the gnawing fear that clawed at his insides. As the meal ended, he volunteered to settle the bill, a desperate ploy to buy a few more precious moments. Sarah and Aaron, along with Oliver, headed towards the car park, Nick promising to catch up shortly. His unease didn’t go unnoticed by his family, thus he wanted a few minutes break to compose himself.

The clinking of cutlery seemed deafening in the sudden silence. He fumbled with his wallet, the seconds stretching into an eternity. Then, a sound that shattered the fragile peace – a loud, guttural blast. His heart lurched into his throat, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He didn’t need to see the flames to know. It was his car, the one they were supposed to be in, a pyre in the

parking lot. By the time the fire brigade arrived, their sirens wailing a mournful dirge, the inferno had been extinguished, leaving behind a mangled, smoking carcass. The occupants, the police officer informed him, were nowhere to be found. Nick stood there, a statue carved from grief and disbelief. The officer’s words, a blur of concern and inquiry, washed over him like waves on a distant shore. He was a hollow shell, his emotions muted, a chilling echo of the man he once was. The prophecy, a cruel twist of fate, had played out, but not as he envisioned. The fire hadn’t consumed his home, but his car, a horrifying substitute that offered no solace. As he walked back to the now eerily silent apartment, the weight of the inscription settled even more heavily upon him. He had tried to outrun fate, only to find it waiting for him around a different corner.

Nick stumbled back into his study, a desolate wasteland mirroring the hollowness within. The Journal laid on the table, exactly where he left it. He didn’t even bother to look at it. The inscription had burned itself onto his soul, a malevolent tattoo etching its prophecy onto his very being. He collapsed onto a chair, his body a marionette with its strings severed. Exhaustion, a heavy cloak, settled upon him. But it wasn’t just exhaustion, it was a chilling surrender. He was a prisoner in a game he couldn’t win. A game where the only prize was oblivion. A game he didn’t even know he was a part of. From a forgotten drawer, his hand retrieved a cold, metallic object – a pistol. It had been his father’s, a relic from a bygone era, a symbol of finality. Now, it represented a twisted escape from the relentless torment. He placed the gun on the desk, its weight a chilling counterpoint to the emptiness in his chest. Tears, long held back, welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. He saw Tuffy, the robin and its once vibrant feathers now dimmed by death. Mr. Brooks, his jovial face etched with a horrifying stillness. The child in the park, their laughter replaced by a chilling silence. Then, the faces of his family and Oliver materialized before him. Sarah, her smile forever frozen, Aaron’s bright eyes vacant. Oliver, his best friend, his confidante, now a ghoul haunting his final moments. The sight of them, not consumed by flames as the premonition promised, but simply gone, ripped a fresh scream from his throat.

The gun trembled in his hand, the line between despair and a final curiosity blurring. He closed his eyes, the faces before him a kaleidoscope of loss. A single tear traced a path down his cheek, a salty testament to his shattered existence. Suddenly, a deafening boom echoed in the room. And then the gun clattered to the floor, a final, chilling punctuation mark on a life unraveled. No sirens wailed in the distance. No frantic car horns pierced the suffocating silence. Just the eerie quiet of a life extinguished, a chilling testament to the despair that had consumed him. The accursed journal lay open on the desk, the inscription “Son, Wife, Friend, Fire” turned red.

The gunshot echoed through the sterile silence of the apartment, a monstrous punctuation mark in the quiet despair. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of gunpowder. Mrs. Green’s frantic call had brought a swift response. Two uniformed officers breached the door, their practiced eyes taking in the scene in a heartbeat. Nick slumped

lifelessly in the chair, a crimson bloom blossoming across his temple, staining his hair and clothes. The gun lay discarded on the floor, a fallen monument to a desperate act. But fate, it seemed, wasn’t quite finished with Nick yet. The tremor in his hands, fueled by despair and indecision, had caused the bullet to veer off course. It grazed his scalp, sending a searing pain lancing through his head. The officers moved with practiced efficiency, one securing the weapon, the other checking for a pulse. Their faces, grim under the harsh glare of the flashlight, found no response.

“We’ve got an unconscious male with a gunshot wound to the head,” the officer barked into his radio. The sterile efficiency of the words did little to mask the underlying urgency. Sirens wailed in the distance, a mournful song heralding the arrival of paramedics.

As they waited, the officers surveyed the room. The overturned furniture spoke of a struggle, a final, desperate attempt at some unknown act. On the desk, stark against the mahogany surface, lay the open journal. The inscription, “Son, Wife, Friend, Fire,” burned into the officer’s mind, a chilling premonition hanging in the air.

The apartment door creaked open again, this time admitting the paramedics. They worked quickly, a practiced ballet of efficiency around the unmoving form. A gurney materialized, Nick lifted onto it with practiced ease. A flurry of questions went unanswered, his glassy eyes reflecting nothing, his body a terrifying tableau of stillness. The wail of the ambulance grew louder, then faded into the distance, carrying Nick away from the wreckage of his life. The officers remained, the silence in the wake of the chaos even more profound. They secured the scene.

A plume of cigarette smoke heralded Detective Dave’s arrival before he even stepped into the victim’s house. Wiry and wiry-haired, with eyes that perpetually squinted against the harsh glare of city lights, Dave surveyed the scene with a detached air. His rumpled suit, a relic from a bygone era, hung loosely on his frame, and a cigarette, ever-present and perpetually burning, dangled precariously from his lips.

A young officer, fresh-faced and eager, approached him. “Suicide, Detective,” he announced, his voice tinged with a nervous tremor. “Head wound, paramedics took him to Mercy General.”

Dave grunted, a single, noncommittal puff of smoke billowing from the cigarette. “Suicide, eh?” The word hung in the air, as flat and lifeless as the scene before him. He flicked the offending ash onto the floor, a tiny rebellion against the sterile order. “Attempted suicide,” he corrected with a dry rasp, his voice as rough cactus. “Don’t jump to conclusions, kid.” He

surveyed the overturned furniture, the crimson stain marring the otherwise pristine carpet. A struggle then. Not a man simply succumbing to despair.

The officer shifted uncomfortably under Dave’s gaze. “Well, sir,” he stammered, “the wife, son, and best friend all died in a car fire just a few hours ago. Seems like a pretty good reason to...”

“Doesn’t mean it’s the only one,” Dave interjected, his voice cutting through the officer’s faltering explanation. He moved with a languid grace that belied his years, his gaze snagging on the open journal on the desk. An inscription, stark and scarlet, jumped out at him: “Son, Wife, Friend, Fire.” He crouched down, the cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips.

His weathered fingers, stained with nicotine and time, traced the inscription. Random words, seemingly devoid of meaning. Yet, a shiver ran down his spine, a premonition prickling at the edges of his consciousness. He tucked the journal into his pocket, a secret tucked away from prying eyes. The scene held no further secrets for him. He straightened, the cigarette forgotten, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. Suicide, huh? An easy dismissal, a convenient label for a life lost or about to be lost. But Dave, with his years spent navigating the murky alleys of the human soul, knew better. There was more to this story, a secret language hidden in plain sight. These innocuous words held a key, a key he was determined to unlock.

As he left the house, the faint scent of smoke mingling with the metallic tang of blood, Dave couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no ordinary case. The inscription, a cryptic message scrawled in the darkness, whispered promises of a truth far more unsettling than a simple suicide attempt. And Detective Dave, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a fire in his eyes, was just the man to chase it down the rabbit hole, but he was paid to go down these rabbit holes.

one entry remained stubbornly out of place – “Bird, Water, Sun.” It didn’t fit the pattern of violent deaths. Needing more information, Dave picked up the phone, the dial tone a rhythmic counterpoint to the pounding of his heart. He dialed Nick’s workplace, the voice on the other end a hesitant mumble. He inquired about a colleague close to Nick, someone who might offer a glimpse into the man’s soul. A name emerged – Alex, a quiet man known for his friendship with Nick.