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Evidence found at the scene of a recent and unusual fire case in a bedroom of the Howard house. Fire was confined to one room, presumed to be suicidal; diary found on heavily damaged desk untarnished/undamaged. Original owner presumed to be an “Alexander G.,” then fifteen year old Robert Howard. Third owner unidentified, but strangely resembles “Alexander G.”’s handwriting.

Entry of Robert H.


I found this old diary under my bed, but I don’t remember seeing it or anyone else telling me about it. We just moved into this house yesterday, and I’m pretty excited about doing some spelunking up in the attic. This house is old as dirt, and I can’t wait to explore it tomorrow.

This place hasn’t been lived in for quite awhile, and when we came in to check out my room the door was locked. It was the only one locked other than the outside doors, which doesn’t make any sense since it’s on the second floor and the window’s screened and tiny. I can barely see outside or get any light without using my lamp. Dad says he’ll put in a bigger window in soon, even though the landlord advised against renovations to the house.

About the house: It’s sort of on the border of the woods, and the landowner, our closest neighbor, lives deep inside them. I can see the house’s roof peeking out from the crest of the hill through my little window. Apparently, this house was as cheap as dirt, too, and in perfect condition. Dad asked the owner why he priced such a nice house at so little a price, but he said that he wouldn’t answer him. Mom says the landowner looks no older than nineteen, and he lives all alone in his house. I’m not sure about that, so I plan to do some spying on him later. His name is Jack. Just Jack. Weird, huh?

Well, it’s about time to go to bed, even though I’m catching glimpses of this “Alexander G.”’s entries. I’m curious about this diary and its previous owner; maybe I’ll read about him tomorrow during school.

-- Robbie H.


School is boring as -explicit-, so I’m reading these entries to kill time. This Alexander-guy talks as if he’s in third person; “Alex, he, him, his...” Or maybe he’s not really the writer or this is some sort of biography about him.

Just got done reading the first page. I don’t think Alex, or sometimes “Ally-Ander,” is the writer, just the subject matter. Maybe this is a collection of his friend’s thoughts or something since the author described him for a page and a half, but I’m not sure yet. Class is over now. More later.

Okay, it’s about two-thirty now, and I asked Dad about our strange landowner and the house. He says that Jack had posted a flyer around town with a phone number, and when Dad had called him up, he heard a young voice. When he mentioned the flyer to him, he became quiet and hesitant. He started to mumble about the age and “fire damage” to one of the rooms on the second floor. We’ve been in all the rooms and there’s no visible signs of a fire.

The house is around seventy-three years old, and we’re flanked by woods on three sides, so there’s no way we can find anything without snooping around for clues. I’m really curious about this Jack guy, though; a nineteen-year-old owner of an old as -explicit- building? I told Mom and Dad I was going to go exploring the woods and would be back before dark. I’m leaving this here so I don’t look suspicious; they’ve seen me with it and I haven’t told them about it. So, I’ll report back later.

-- Robbie H.


I saw something that followed me back into my nightmares... I don’t feel safe knowing that that Jack is our sole neighbor. I’m scared, I mean, he’s the -explicit- landowner, for -explicit- sake! He probably has spare keys to the house,- and so in my bed every creak of this old-explicit- house I think it’s Jack!

I went towards his house, and as it came into view I saw a figure standing a few feet away from it. I ducked away and snuck around to get a better look.

A tall, darkly dressed figure stood in the brittle grass, gray hoodie and worn dark jeans. His skin was paleish and his hair was dark, most definitely black, but it was hard to tell if it was blue-black or red-black or even aubergine, and it fell over his face- it was kinda long and a little unkempt. I’m guessing it was Jack. He was whittling a piece of wood with a pocket knife as he hummed. I made a soundless chuckle as I thought he was afraid of running into vampires or some -explicit-.

A twig snapped and his hair- it- it spiked up and turned a deep strawberry blonde as his head jerked up. He pocketed his knife and twirled his stake around in his hand, his hair beginning to lengthen again and darken to a sandy blonde.

I nearly crapped my pants at seeing his hair change like a chameleon. He seemed to be on the edge and he rhythmly twirled around the wood weapon, as if he was ready to impale someone with it. He whistled a few notes, and then quickly thrusted the stake into the ground.

Something shattered loudly, and several birds fled. I couldn’t see what he’d stuck the stake into, but the stake wobbled and the man walked away, his hair becoming black again.

As soon as he’d gone out of sight, I went over to the stake, still embedded in the thing. When I saw it, I lost my lunch right next to it as the scent of stale blood flew to my nostrils.

It was a human skull., whose top had broken from the impalement, lying in a bare, blood-red patch.

Something sounding like a girl and something inhuman shrieked inside Jack’s house, and before I became the next skull in his backyard, I got the -explicit- out of there.

I haven’t told Mom or Dad about it- I mean, would they believe me? “Our neighbor/landowner is a serial killer or some -explicit-!” Sounds like some silly crap, right?

I got through today okay, though; I read the diary up to the last five or so pages. They’re not like the others; they’re all sooty and smell like smoke. Alex and the friend writing about him seem to be haunted by something. That or they’re talking about something “more” as my English teacher puts it. He always says there’s always more to a story than face value, like a man walking a dog means the man likes his wife when she wears blue skirts or something. God, that’s so stupid.

But it’s the only way any of this story makes sense. Looking out my little window I-

Oh my God.

Jack...It’s Jack. He’s outside looking at me from the hill. Right through the window at me.


I’m still alive, thank God. I was sure after last night I was gonna die in my sleep. I was -explicit- bricks all through the night hearing the house settling.

I’m still scared though; I found something wrapped in paper on my desk under the something or someone opened the screenless window and put it there. It’s a note wrapped around a little toy car. The car’s paint is worn in some places and its front wheel is busted. The note says:

"Don’t sleep in your room tonight.

Just trust me. No one needs to end up like Ally-Ander."

There’s no signature, and the handwriting is too much like the previous entry. If it’s from Jack, I don’t trust him- If he knows about this diary, then he’s been in my room or watching me- He’s gonna kill me, I can feel it. I don’t want to lead him to my family,- if he wants to kill someone, it’s gonna be me, and only me. But I don’t want to die either way!

I locked my door tonight, and propped the desk chair against my door. If Jack’s gonna kill me, he’s gonna have to break down the door and wake up my parents doing it.

The Unknown Entry

I tried to warn him. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I told you about the room how it was never meant to be a bedroom; there’s plenty of other rooms. I locked that door to discourage you from using it but you let him stay there anyway.

I tried to get him out, but there was something against the door so I couldn’t get in there in time. Everything was destroyed and he’s gone, just like Alexander.

Alex, as you may have read, died in a fire just like he did. In the same room. On the same day. The room only catches fire on June 17th. The fire is fickle, in a way; it will only stop burning when the body inside is burnt to a crisp, brittle skeleton. If there’s no one inside, then it won’t burn for very long. Either way, the room will be in a fire damaged state until people forget about whoever died there.

I guess I don’t count.

Written by JayPuma186
Content is available under CC BY-SA