The Self-Writing Journal

I bought an old journal at an estate sale. The owner had died alone in

that house. That night, I left it blank. When I woke

up, five pages were filled with my handwriting. But I didn't

write them. The entries described my entire day. Every thought I never said.

Next morning, it predicted a fight with my sister. It all came

true by noon. The last words are help me repeated hundreds of times.

It's two forty-five right now. My hand is reaching for the basement door.

I'm not telling it to move.