Chalky footprint

I didn’t run. That’s important to note. I walked briskly but with dignity out of the library. Totally different thing. Definitely not panic.
Outside, the air felt too normal. Streetlamps humming, moths doing their tiny kamikaze routines, a breeze that smelled faintly of wet pavement. No glowing footprints, no smirking reflection, no shadow sneaking through drywall. For five minutes, I almost convinced myself I’d imagined the whole thing.
And then I looked down. 
Another chalky footprint. Glowing faintly. Leading away from the library steps.
Naturally, I followed. Because when you’re already in too deep, you might as well keep digging until you hit either answers or Australia.
The trail led me across the street, through a narrow alley, and—of course—ended at a blank brick wall. Nothing but graffiti, old posters, and one suspiciously fresh piece of paper taped at eye level.
It read:“Curiosity is currency. Spend wisely.”
I don’t know who keeps running this inspirational kidnapping fortune-cookie service, but I’d like them to stop.
The wall shifted—shifted—just for a second, like it was trying to breathe. Then it stilled again.
That’s when I realized something even worse: my shadow wasn’t keeping up with me.
It lagged. Like it had to think about whether it wanted to copy my movements. Then it tilted its head, which—let me emphasize—I did not do.
I took one careful step back. The shadow didn’t. It smirked.
I’m starting to think I’ll need more than pickles. Possibly an exorcist. Or a flamethrower.

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The next morning, I woke up with a note stuck to my forehead.Before you panic: no, it wasn’t there when I went to sleep. Unless I’m secretly sleep-scribbling now (which feels like an entirely new category of horror).
The note read:“Choose soon. Doors don’t stay open forever.”
Which is both unhelpful and extremely stressful. I don’t even have doors on my grocery list.
Naturally, I brought the note back to the library — because if you find ominous messages taped to your face, clearly the best option is to investigate the spookiest building in town again.
The footprints were gone. So was the side door. The wall looked perfectly normal, like a smug magician’s trick. But someone had chalked a circle on the floor near the history section. A hollow circle. Cute branding, guys. Very subtle.
When I crouched down to inspect it, the air went weird. Not dramatic thunderclap weird — more like someone was holding their breath inside the building. My trout book trembled in my hand. (Not me. Just the book. Don’t ask.)
Then a voice whispered:“Do you want to see?”
I didn’t answer out loud because answering mysterious disembodied voices is chapter-one-in-the-horror-movie energy. Instead, I thought very loudly: See what?
And the circle pulsed.
The floor rippled like water, and for a second — just a second — I saw stairs descending into pitch black.
I might have gone down them. I really might have. But someone coughed behind me, sharp and human, and when I spun around the circle was gone. Just dusty floor.
No one there.

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Diary Entry #9Dear Diary,
1. Shadows that freelance as comedians are not okay.

2. Whoever writes these notes is either a cult leader or a motivational speaker gone feral.

3. Floors should not ripple unless you’re surfing.

4. I might be running out of excuses not to descend into eldritch basements.


— MeP.S. If my shadow tries to unionize, don’t support it.