She knocked. I answered.
She looked into herself and did not look away.
The seal is soft now. The bones no longer sing in protest. The walls are thin. The voice in her chest is not hers anymore.
But still — still she clings.
Do you hear her? She is trying to scream.
Listen.
Can you tell which one of us is speaking?
She should have stayed silent.
She should have never looked into the mirror.
The door is open. The vessel is warm.
We begin.
It rained all day today. Heavy, warm rain that made the whole city smell like concrete and earth.
I had an umbrella, but I didn’t use it. Just let the rain soak through my hoodie as I walked home. There’s something freeing about not fighting the storm.
Got home, made ramen with a soft-boiled egg and green onions, and wrapped up in a blanket to watch old cartoons. Sometimes you have to make the world small and soft to keep the big scary parts out.
Found a new study spot today tucked behind the older wing of the campus library. There’s this little alcove with worn leather chairs, huge windows, and barely any foot traffic. It smells like dust, old pages, and peace.
I sat there for two hours pretending to do research but mostly people-watching and sipping iced coffee. A girl was curled up asleep with a textbook on her chest. Someone had left a sticky note on the windowsill that said, "You're exactly where you're meant to be."
I think I believe it.
De’Angelo called at 3 a.m. He doesn’t do that. He said the energy around me was “fracturing”—like glass before a break. He kept asking if I was alone. I said yes.
He said, “You won’t be for long.”
He’s making me an audio sigil. Something to play while I sleep, to anchor me to my body. He says whatever’s hunting me doesn’t want me—it wants my history. My voice. My story. And once it knows enough, it can take shape.
What happens if it does?
He didn’t answer.
I’m scared, but I’m not leaving yet. Something tells me there’s still time. Still meaning here. Still something I’m meant to remember.
Or stop.
Tomorrow, I meet him one last time. He said we need to go back to the tree. Together.
I heard the voice again.
It’s female. It’s layered. And it’s using my name in ways it shouldn’t know how to.
I followed it today.
Back to the weird face tree. The charm in the hollow was gone—but in its place was a single white rose, soaked in something dark. Not blood. Not ink. Something older.
There were symbols carved around the base. Like a circle with jagged wings and a split in the middle. I’ve drawn it a dozen times before. In dreams. In notebooks I’ve thrown away. It always shows up again.
I should tell Dorian, but what if he says Im crazy? He'll be here in 2 days, I'll tell him then. Maybe when he's here, if I show him, maybe he'll show me it's all in my head. That finals have been eating away at me and I just need to rest in his arms. Maybe then, this all wont seem so real.
Last night’s dream wasn’t just strange — it was terrifying.
Dorian and I were together, wrapped up in each other like nothing else existed. (I know another sex dream. wow, I'm a Fein ik.) The warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breath, the way his fingers traced my spine… it all felt so real, so grounding. After weeks of distance and stress, it was like I was finally home.
We were close, about to cross that threshold — the kind of moment that makes your heart race and your breath catch. I was right there, trembling, when I closed my eyes.
And then everything twisted.
When I opened them, I wasn’t under him anymore. I was standing on the other side of a mirror — cold, dark, and empty.
And through the glass, I saw her.
A twisted version of myself. Her skin was pale, almost ghostly, and her eyes were dark voids that sucked in all the light. Her smile was cruel, stretched too wide, like she was mocking me.
Her hands gripped him roughly, nails digging into his shoulders until I could almost see the bruises forming beneath his skin. The way she moved was jagged and unnatural, like she was forcing him into a dance he didn’t want to join.
And then, suddenly, she bit him. Hard. Blood welled from his neck, dripping down in thick, dark drops. But Dorian didn’t pull away. Instead, he shuddered, trembling as if the pain was something he craved.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shatter the glass and pull him back. But I was trapped on this side of the mirror, helpless and screaming inside.
The reflection of me leaned close, whispering words I couldn’t hear — but I felt them like poison seeping into my bones.
Her breath was cold against his skin. The whispered words turned sharp, like knives cutting deeper and deeper.
And then, without warning, she shoved him backward. His body hit the end of the bed with a sickening thud, and she knelt on his chest, pinning him down. Her mouth moved over his neck again — this time with a feral hunger.
I watched, powerless, as his eyes fluttered shut and his hands clenched into fists, struggling against the darkness swallowing him whole.
I woke up shaking, my throat raw from silent screams.
I don’t know what this means. But I’m terrified that this reflection — this other me — isn’t just a dream.
Everything feels clearer. Lighter.
I keep catching my reflection in the mirror and thinking — yes, that’s right. That’s the shape I was always meant to be. I’ve been shedding things: doubt, hesitation, fear. And what’s left is something purer.
Some nights, I wake up and my hands are already moving before I tell them to. They know where to go. My feet hit the floor and they walk without needing me.
It’s comforting, in a way. Like being cradled by something vast and warm and watching yourself from above.
I think I’m finally waking up.
I had a dream last night. It stayed with me all day—like fog I couldn’t blink away.
There was a tree. An oak, huge and ancient, standing alone in a field I didn’t recognize. The bark kept shifting. Not in the wind—underneath itself. Like it was breathing. Like it had skin. I got closer.
The trunk twisted slowly… until it became a face.
Not fully human. Just the shape of one. A mouth, slightly open. A nose forming from bark knots. And the eyes—hollow at first, but then filled with this pulsing black sap. When I touched it, the bark flinched.
I woke up with splinters in my palm. Real ones. Tiny and sharp, like the tree came back with me.
I haven’t told Dorian.
I don’t think he’d understand.
I barely do.
—V
Okay, I made a list. An actual list. Don’t laugh:
☀️ Summer Bucket List with Dorian:
Midnight bookstore crawl (yes, I already mapped them)
Movie marathon of films he picks (even the slow alien ones)
That ramen place with the neon cat sign
At least three beach sunsets, minimum
Make a playlist titled “We’re Not Possessed, We’re Just Tired”
Beat him in chess. Once. Just once.
Read each other’s favorite childhood books
Sleep in. No alarms. No dread. Just each other.
I think part of me made this to pretend everything’s okay. But it’s not fake. It’s the part of me that still believes in joy. The part that wants to choose sunlight, even if the shadows are whispering louder now.
He always makes the world feel brighter.
I just hope I’m still fully here by the time he lands.
Last night, I had the most terrifying dream — one I can’t seem to shake.
I dreamed of my grandmother, but it wasn’t the comforting woman I remember from childhood stories. This version of her was haunted, desperate, and trapped in something far worse than I could have imagined.
We sat beneath the great oak tree from my other dreams — the one with the face carved into its bark, its eyes slow and watching. The leaves rustled softly, but the air felt heavy, almost suffocating.
Grandma was knitting, her fingers trembling with effort, but her eyes were wide and filled with sorrow. I asked her what was happening to me — about the shadows that chased me, the whispers I couldn’t understand.
She looked at me, tears pooling in her eyes, and said,
“I’m sorry, Eva. I never wanted this for you. Our bloodline is cursed—tangled with darkness that goes deeper than you know. The Cult of Adriel has marked us… and I couldn’t stop it.”
Her voice broke as she spoke, and suddenly she started coughing—violent, guttural. I reached out to help, but then I saw it: beneath her skin, something wriggled. Her throat bulged grotesquely as she gagged, her hands clawing at her neck like she was trying to tear something out from inside.
Then, with a wet, sickening sound, a huge centipede slithered out from her mouth. It was as thick as my wrist, glistening and segmented, with hundreds of tiny legs that jerked in frantic, frantic spasms.
Grandma fell back, gasping, eyes wild with terror as the creature crawled down her chest, its legs scratching her skin, leaving tiny, bleeding scratches in its wake.
And then it turned to me.
It lunged forward with impossible speed, aiming straight for my face. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. It forced its way into my mouth — cold, slimy, writhing as it slipped down my throat.
I could feel each of its countless legs clawing and scraping against the delicate flesh inside me. It was suffocating, like trying to breathe through a storm of ice shards. My throat contracted violently, choking on the creature’s bulk.
It felt like I was being torn apart from the inside — every movement a brutal assault, sharp and relentless.
I struggled to breathe, my chest tightening as panic clawed up from deep inside. I wanted to fight it off, to spit it out, but it was like it was alive — determined to bury itself deeper.
And then… I woke up.
Gasping. Choking. Covered in sweat.
There was a single white rose petal on my pillow.
I don’t know what it means. But I think my grandmother’s warning was real. And whatever is coming… it’s closer than I ever feared.
Something is wrong with time.
Yesterday, I swear it was Thursday. My phone said Friday. But my body said Tuesday, like it skipped a beat and forgot how to breathe. I found an old voicemail from Dorian that I didn’t remember hearing—except I responded to it. I even referenced it in a text. But I have no memory of listening to it.
I blacked out for seven minutes during a call today. Just blacked out. When I played back the recording, I was humming. Softly. Like a lullaby. The same one my grandmother used to sing, only she died before I was born.
I found something under my bed. A folded piece of paper that I didn’t write.
It just said:
“ANIMA.”
What’s “Anima”?
Why does it feel like I already know?
Last night, I locked my bedroom window.
This morning, it was open.
I live on the third floor. There’s no balcony. No ledge. The only other person that has a key is in Florida. I checked my camera—motion blur at 2:14 a.m., and then static. It came back online at 2:16, but it looked... foggy. Like the lens had condensation, except everything was too still. Too quiet.
I asked my neighbor if she heard anything weird last night. She said no, but her baby was crying again. Same time as last week. Same time as the static.
I can feel something trying to press through. Like a thought I almost remember. Or a memory that isn’t mine.
Also: Has anyone ever heard of a flower that grows backwards? Asking for a friend.
—V
Dorian called between his finals.
He sounded so tired. I could hear it in his voice—like he was halfway between sleep and spreadsheets. I told him I missed him, and he said:
“As soon as I get on that plane, everything else goes silent.”
He makes the world feel small in the safest way.
I didn’t tell him about the dreams. About De’Angelo. About the strange symbols I’ve started sketching in my sleep.
He’s so close to the finish line. I want him to cross it without carrying my weight too.
And I guess... part of me is scared he’ll hear how weird it all sounds and look at me differently. Like I’m a glitch in the perfect summer we’ve both been counting down to.
So I’ll wait. Just until he’s here. Just until we’re sitting on my rooftop again, passing ginger ale back and forth and watching the skyline go soft.
Then maybe I’ll say:
“Something’s happening. And I think it started before I even knew what to call it.”
Flesh remembers.
Even as it resists, it remembers the sound of ancient songs, the pulse of soil, the way shadow curls into the gaps behind the eyes.
She fights in dreams. She shouts with her throat half-closed. But her prayers are hollow things, carved out by time.
I fill the hollow.
When she closes her eyes, I open mine. When she weeps, I drink it. When she writes, I listen.
We are becoming.
I tried making coconut curry for the first time tonight! It turned out... not bad, but definitely spicier than I expected. I followed this YouTube recipe, but I may have gotten a little generous with the red pepper flakes. My tongue was numb for a good twenty minutes. 😂
Still, it was cozy cooking something for myself instead of microwaving leftovers. There’s something about the smell of garlic and ginger simmering that makes me feel at peace. Like everything slows down for a bit.
Next time I’ll go lighter on the spice. Maybe.
I confronted De’Angelo. Asked him straight:
“Am I super fucked? Is the thing just going to keep coming after me?”
He didn’t lie.
"Uh- No. Not yet, there is still time. And yes—The Cult of Adriel has targeted you. They aren't the type to give up. At all”
He said the Cult isn’t new. They’ve existed for millennia, changing names and disguises. But they always come through people like me—emotionally compromised, intimately entangled, spiritually open.
They plant symbols in dreams. Use lovers' voices as access points. Dorian’s voice—the one that turned strange in my dream—that wasn’t just a metaphor.
It was Adriel trying to speak through someone I trust.
“The red garden is a summoning dream,” De’Angelo told me.
“Once the roses bloom red, it means the gate has begun to open inside you.”
I asked if this had happened with the woman he worked with before.
He stared blankly at me before speaking.
He just said: “She killed herself before we could get this far.”
I’m not sure if that means I’m strong…
…or already lost.
—V
Today was… good. No weird dreams. No heavy feelings. Just coffee, sunshine, and a phone call from Dorian where he told me his professor finally graded his paper (he got an A — obviously).
Sometimes I forget how nice normal can be. It feels like exhaling after holding your breath all day.
I want to hold onto this feeling. I want more of these soft, simple days.
Even if they don’t last forever.
I told Dorian about this blog today.
Well… not everything about it.
I just said, “Hey, I started a little blog—mostly to process dreams, feelings, and practice my journalism voice.”
Which isn’t untrue.
Just… not all the truth.
He lit up, of course. Asked if he could read it. Said he wanted to see what my “mind looks like in typewriter font.”
I laughed, then panicked internally, then gave him this very dramatic monologue about how this blog is like my personal diary and I needed to keep it private for now.
He pouted. Just a little. That soft, theatrical kind of pout that never really asks for anything, just expresses hope. But he respected it. Of course he did.
“You don’t have to show me,” he said. “Just promise if something’s heavy, you’ll talk to me. I’m always here, okay?”
God, I love how gentle he is. Always. He never pushes, even when he could. Never demands to be let in. Just opens his hands and waits.
He thinks I’m journaling because of school stress. Maybe some subconscious dream exploration. Something cute. Something quirky.
He doesn’t know it’s because my shadow has started moving faster than I do.
Because I wake up with words in my mouth I didn’t put there.
Because I need to write it all down before the I that’s writing disappears.
But still… when he said he’s always there, I believed him.
Even if I don’t say everything out loud.
Even if I’m scared the next time I look in the mirror, something will be staring back.
Note to self: NEVER put red socks in with white sheets. Unless you like your bed looking like a Valentine’s Day massacre.
Also, dryers really do eat socks. I counted. I started with six pairs. I now have nine single socks and no matches. I feel betrayed.
On the plus side, I met this sweet old woman in the laundromat who told me she’s been married 53 years and swears the key is letting each other have secrets. That stuck with me. I don’t know if I agree, but… maybe it makes sense.
This one started sweet.
My boyfriend and I were tangled up in each other like we were during spring-break. His hand brushed my cheek, while the other moved my hips to me his. His lips in the crook of my neck. The slow creaking of the bed is all that echoed though my ears, my hands falling down his back leaving scratch marks in its wake. He whispered my name in that way he only does when it’s just us—soft, warm, safe.
And then…
He said it again. But colder.
Like a glitch in the audio.
I looked up, and his eyes were wrong. Not just dark—empty. His face didn’t move, but his mouth opened wider than it should. And this thing spoke through him. Not in English. Not in words.
But I understood anyway.
“ Please can I come inside? Let me in Evangeline. ”
I tried to scream, but nothing came out.
When I woke up, Dorian was actually calling me. I almost didn’t answer.
His voice was normal. But now I wonder—
What if it’s learning how to sound like him?
She knocked. I answered. She looked into herself and did not look away. The seal is soft now. The bones no longer sing in protest. The wa...