November 5, 1871
The book was on the bed when I woke — open to a chapter that wasn’t there before.
The Door Between.
The handwriting isn’t mine. It’s thinner, sharper, the ink scored into the page like scratches made with a pin. The diagrams show two silhouettes joined by a single ribbon of flame. One of them is crossed out.
The air smelled of myrrh — thick and cloying — though I have none here. Outside, I could hear Pa in the yard, splitting wood, the steady rhythm of the axe grounding me to the morning. I wanted to go down, to let the sound wash this from my head. But the window latch was open, though I never touched it. I shut it once. It opened again.
Before dawn, footsteps creaked in the hallway — slow, deliberate, pausing between each step like someone listening. They stopped outside my door. The latch lifted — once, twice — then stilled. I waited, holding my breath until the rooster crowed. When I finally opened the door, the hall was empty.
Only a faint trail of salt marked the floorboards, winding from my door to the far end where the shadows gather.
When I returned to my room, the book still hummed. But the chapter’s title had changed.
Now it reads:
The Door Within.
