The Corner

I found the journal in my grandmother's attic three days after her funeral.

The leather was cracked, pages yellowed, but her handwriting was unmistakable.

Dated entries from 1987. Normal at first. Then, October thirteenth:

'The baby won't stop staring. I saw myself smiling in the mirror.

I wasn't.' The entries grew frantic. Desperate sketches of unnatural figures.

'It showed me the truth. We're wrong. Rooms are looking back.'

The final entry was yesterday's date. In my handwriting: 'Found the journal. Right on schedule.'

'Your daughter is three months old now. Has she started staring yet?' The