The fact is, someone has to know where I put it. Someone is watching me. Someone has access to my house. Someone is in my house. They want me to have the knife. It has to be the man in the walls. And he’s watching me as I write, he’s wondering if I’m gonna make the right decision with the knife.
When will he show himself? Why won’t he tell me what he wants already? He wants something from me. I’m left wondering how he survived. He died long ago. But he lives in my walls. I don’t understand. Nobody would. I have no proof of anything.
My goal today… is to find out how to stop this. If I keep having these dreams… I’m going to kill myself. I’m gonna fucking slice my throat with that knife. I’ll do it in the tub. I’ll have a hot bath running. It’ll be an easy cleanup. I feel bad for whoever finds me. But it’ll be the only way out.”
“All I found on my search was common sense stuff. It’s all stuff I’ve tried before. Tea, happy thoughts, that sort of thing. I’ve done it all, but the nightmares stay, they get stronger every passing night. Some nights are dreamless, of course, but mostly they only get worse.
I’m tempted to see a psychic—there’s one down the street who works out of her home. I see the neon sign all the time that says she does palm readings. There’s another sign with her hours but I never bothered to write them down. But I could always see her if I’m that desperate. Should I stoop to that level? To a medium?
Mediums… no, that’s satanic. I’m not satanic, and I do not want to be satanic. But all a book will tell me is to eat better and exercise. That’s one thing I’ve done. Exercise. I’ve done it enough. Nothing helps. Exercise, dream catchers, tea, none of it.
This is something out of my reach. Out of the reach of logic. Something too powerful. But what?”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“I have to quit this. I have to put away the journal. It must go under the dresser for good. You’ll always be there if I need you, but you must also be the source of the nightmares. And I can’t keep dancing around it. You’re the reason, and I need you to go.
But that’s not all. I still have more to say…
The blob in the dark, he becomes more real every night. Something is happening. He still watches over me. And he’s becoming more… real.
It’s an indescribable feeling I get. I get it when I watch myself sleep. He’s not a ghost, he’s not a dream, he’s a thing. And each night he’s closer to getting me. And each night the knife is there for me. Oh my God I think I’m having a panic attack.
I’m at the library and everything feels so loud. It’s quiet, yet loud.
And tonight, I’m putting you away under the dresser.”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“It’s been a week. You’ve been under my dresser the whole week. I’ve tried to forget you. You’re always on my mind. I can’t say I was as… successful as I thought. The dreams have died down, sure, but the blob in the dark (the man in my walls) still hovers over me. As I sleep, he watches. He stands there. What does he want? What is he gonna do to me?
I need to put you away again.
I believe this is goodbye for good. I already feel better without you. You helped me for a while… but I need to do what’s best for me.
Maybe I’ll check in here and there. Maybe… maybe if I discover something…”
From Valerie Hart’s diary
“I can’t shake this panicky feeling. Every night when I sleep, I feel a man hover over me. I can’t look at who he is. He watches me with nasty thoughts. I don’t know where he disappears to, but he comes back every night. I’m being watched. I know it. That’s why I keep the knife under my pillow, and one under my bed. I know one day I’ll turn and see who it is, and I’ll scream and he’ll grab me and during the struggle I’ll slash right through his chest and he’ll fall over and never bother me again.
I’m back because I figured it out.
I’m sick. I understand what Athena Hendrasen meant now. I can’t tell you all of it. But I get it. I found out I was the one putting the knife there. I was sleepwalking. But the blob, the man in my walls, he is real. I feel him every night. He just watches. And I’m ready to stab him. I’m ready to hurt him. I’m ready for revenge on the Sunday Slasher for all the women he killed. I was them. I was all of them. I felt their deaths, and I’m ready to kill him.
But my diary, I need you to understand, I’m different now. I’m sick. I’m very, very sick. I don’t think I’m the Valerie Hart I used to be.
Something is happening. Everything is changing. I can feel it in the air. I can see it in Carpenter’s black skies.
So before I put you under the dresser… this was fun. Even throughout all the sick parts, this was fun. But this is goodbye. I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.
I promise to reread you sometime. Maybe a decade from now. And I’ll start a new diary and compare how different my life was.
Maybe.”
Chapter Thirteen
From Rose Hawthorn’s diary
“I first knew… or, I mean, thought… Valerie was crazy when Avery Mitchell died and she didn’t seem to notice. She wasn’t sad, and that scared me. It was almost like she forgot about him. When I brought him up, she didn’t want to talk about him and she seemed very calm, and… I don’t know, it worried me, but I never said anything. I think if I had, maybe we wouldn’t be here right now, but we are and I’m worried and I feel terrible.
I loved her with all my heart, she was a sister to me, and it’s all my fault she’s gone. We shouldn’t have switched places. But I have another thing to worry about now, and that’s her journal. Do I show anyone or keep it to myself? But that means breaking peoples’ hearts. So many people mourned for me, and I’m alive, and so many people think she’s around, but she’s dead. What can I do? I’d rather be with Valerie than be here in a place where nothing makes sense.
And I’m disturbed at her journal. After the last entry, it was blank until the last four pages that said ‘I’M SICK’ at the top of every page and ‘I’M CHANGING’ at the bottom. It took a lot out of me to read her book. Gosh, Val, why didn’t you tell me so much was wrong with you? I would’ve understood. I would’ve talked to you about it and helped you however I could. I don’t think you’re crazy. I want you back. I want to help you.
I know she wasn’t crazy, because her bedroom is giving me a dark feeling. Her room looks very happy, very bright, even in a town like Carpenter. But every night, I feel so uncomfortable. It’s the room. Something is wrong with her room. I know it wasn’t you, Valerie, I know nothing was wrong with you. Maybe that’s why you didn’t dream when you slept at my house. I think it was just your room.
But I looked it up, nothing ever happened in the Harts’ home. There were no murders here like in movies where someone becomes possessed or where the ghost messes with them. There was nothing wrong with the house at all. I even feel fine being in the creepy basement or the rest of the house, it doesn’t give me those problems. I slept in the living room one day and I didn’t feel as grossed out as I did when I slept in Val’s room. It’s her room.
Carpenter gives you a filthy feeling when you go outside, and I think most of it comes from the sky, but her room gives off that same feeling, too. Her room has that same weird essence as outside. I feel a little drowsy in here. And cold.
And as I cried and put her journal back under the dresser, I just felt so confused and lost and broken inside, I don’t know what to do. I kissed Shawn and haven’t talked to him since.
They haven’t found the killer yet. And oh my God, I’m sorry Shelly. I haven’t mentioned you yet. It’s like I was oblivious to losing a cousin. We didn’t get along, but I miss you, Shelly. We did have fun times together and it’s all my fault I’ll never see either of you again, you guys were driving together because I was an idiot.
I saw the photographs and screamed, nobody in the world deserved that.
I just feel so blank inside, so… not only empty, and not only guilty, but just… I’m
a pile of shit. I feel like a pile of crap, and there’s no way around it, I’ll have to live with my feelings for the rest of my life. There was another murder too, only a few miles away. Another girl was found… oh gosh, just like they were. This person is out there… and who’s gonna stop him? It’s always the same, the girls are always missing an eye and their nose is cut off and their faces are so mutilated they’re unrecognizable and I’m shaking writing this. Oh, what if I’m next?
From Rose Hawthorn’s diary
“So, I saw Shawn today for the first time since we kissed. At school, I told him to meet me there again. I gave him Valerie’s journal and told him how she wanted me to read it. I warned him he might be worried by what he sees, but he was really eager to read it. He started reading it there on the spot. I wasn’t gonna leave him with it—I didn’t wanna leave it out of my sight. It was all I had left of her, so I sat there while he read it, and it was very quiet. He read it in one sitting, he never asked me any questions or looked away from the book, he just read it.
‘What does any of this mean?’ he asked when he finished.
‘Shawn, it’s hard to understand, but this is who she was, and I didn’t even know.’
‘Was she crazy?’
‘I don’t think so. Please believe me, it’s her room, I think. It feels so gross in there and I feel sick every time I step inside of it.’
‘Rose, you know somebody else died, right?’ Shawn said. ‘A girl not that far from here. She was close to our age.’
‘I know, I heard, so the person isn’t done,’ I said. ‘Could she have been right? The man in her walls…’
‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked.
I cried, ‘Shawn, I knew her better than anyone else and I know she wasn’t crazy! You saw the bags under her eyes, she was having nightmares and couldn’t sleep. She avoided sleep, she was… it was her room! She wasn’t crazy!’
‘Her room,’ he said. ‘Can I go inside?’
‘What? No!’ I said. ‘At least, not today. Not with her parents home, but on another day.’
‘What day?’
‘I’ll… let you know, but you can come and see it soon, I promise.’
He handed me back the book and said, ‘And about the kiss—‘
‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Just don’t, even if you enjoyed it or didn’t, or even if I enjoyed it or didn’t, I can’t do that to Valerie, dead or alive. Please, let’s not do it again or talk about it.’
He nodded.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘With anything at all?’
‘Maybe if you can time travel.’
He sighed and said, ‘Something is going on in Carpenter, Rose, and whatever it is, I want to end it.’
‘I feel it, too,’ I said. ‘Something bad has already started, and it will only get worse.’
We looked up to the cryptic sky and watched the little black clouds float around. We didn’t have words to say, so we sat without talking, but I think both of us were thinking about her. I don’t know why he felt so sad over someone he barely knew, but he did, and I was so sorry for him. I wanted to be sorry for myself, but I couldn’t be. I didn’t deserve sympathy.
The sudden coldness on the air told me that the worst was yet to come. It brought out goosebumps and I looked at Shawn. He had them too and was looking at me. Still without words, we both knew what the other was thinking. We were both thinking about the message the cold air was bringing us. And I can’t be sure about this next part, but I think when my eyes broke away from his and I looked back to the sky, I think I saw it get darker. It was a perverted dark, similar to the one Val talked about in a dream, where it looked like the darkness was trying to hide the night, to hide that murder. This darkness was trying to hide Carpenter.”
From Rose Hawthorn’s diary
“I’ve heard about another murder and I’m scared because this one was closer to home than the last one. I want to move away from Carpenter, but part of me feels I need to stay here, partially because it’s my home and partially because I owe it to Valerie and Shelly to find out what happened to them.
This girl was 18. That’s only a little bit older than I am, and I can’t and don’t want to imagine what that’s like, being faced with your death, having a knife forced through you like that. I wonder, at what point do they die? How much of it do they feel? Maybe I don’t want to know that. I don’t want to know what Shelly and Valerie felt in their final minutes.
But on the other hand, I do want to know, because the car was locked, and I just don’t get it at all. I wish I had answers, but all I can do is sit here and wonder. My—Val’s grades are slipping and it’s all my fault. I can’t focus in school, and they’ve made me see a counselor or therapist or whatever she’s called at the school, and she tries to help me but she can’t, because she doesn’t know the whole story, and if she did… if she knew about the switch, she’d tell everyone, and I’d be done for. I’d be in such big trouble, and it would mess with so many people, and I’m not ready for that. I never will be.”
From Rose Hawthorn’s diary
“Most people think Valerie and Shelly were the first two victims, and these other two girls that died make four total, but I think Avery Mitchell might’ve been first. It’s a stretch because it’s been so long, but he was found in his bathroom with a knife going through the back of his head. All the girls had cuts along their heads. His nose and eye were not missing like the girls, but I have the strangest feeling that the person that stabbed him was the one who mutilated the others. And that connects this person to Valerie even more… could this person have known we switched? But what do they have against Valerie that they’d do that to her? But then, in her journal, she didn’t even know Avery died. She talked about missing him and not seeing him and him not answering his phone as if he were alive. Which is crazy—she must have known he died. But at the same time, I don’t think she was crazy. Come on, I knew her, we spent a lot of time together and I would’ve known if she were crazy. Valerie Hart was the farthest thing from crazy, she was sweet and funny and maybe angry and swore like a sailor, but crazy? No.
I’m writing this in her room and I feel very ugly. And—”
“Holy shit,” Rose said. “What is that?”
Chapter Fourteen
Rose Hawthorn jumped off the bed, clutching her journal close to her chest, and looking down at the dry light that shined from underneath the bed. It seemed to flicker on and off. She couldn’t see much else—there was only a thin space between the carpet and covers that it could come out from. She was half in awe and half in shock.
She was right. There was something wrong with the room. She was chilled not only by the light but the creaking sound like footsteps that accompanied the flicker.
STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!
The steps became heavier. Rose stepped backwards until she hit the wall with the window. Her hand gripped the curtain.
Then the light stopped flickering.
She screamed, but nobody was home to hear her. Not today. It was Sunday night, and Valerie’s parents were out on a date. She could’ve invited Shawn over, and sure, she planned to, but for now she was alone with the supernatural light below the bed. Her stomach turned. This was something Valerie had never mentioned.
Then there was a laugh below the bed. Rose screamed again. It was her biggest fear: the laugh of a clown. She looked to the window then quickly back to the light below the bed. She thought about jumping.
I could survive a jump from here, right?
The covers folded upward on their own; inch by inch they rose, the light flashed again, and the heavy footsteps filled the room. Her heart raced and her sweaty palms twitched. She never blinked.
When the covers finally rested on top of the bed, the light magnified. Rose looked closer. There was nothing but light under the bed. No clown. Nothing to see. And while she was still against the wall, she got to her knees for a better look. All she saw was the chaotic br
ightness. It was evil. It was sick. And when she heard the footsteps fill the bedroom again, she looked up, but all she saw was an empty room.
The lights were off, and she hadn’t touched the switch. It was on the other side of the room. “But they were just on!”
“Come closer,” the grave voice below the bed said. The light flickered faster with every syllable. “Don’t you want to know the secrets of Carpenter, Rose?”
She did want to know. The carpet seemed to push her forward. She started to crawl toward the bright light. It did not flicker when the voice did not speak.
“Good girl,” it said, flickering. “Come on, Rosie.”
Rose crawled, stopped, took a breath, then crawled again. She was two feet away when sweat fell into her eyes. She stopped in pain, set down her journal, and wiped her eyes. Then she crawled again.
She was spellbound by the light. It was glorious, no longer the dirty light it was from a distance. Her head gently touched the bedframe as she stared at the light; looking at it did not hurt. It was like magic. She could stare into it and her eyes would be fine.
“Boo!”
The light did not flicker. It engulfed the room and blinded her. Two giant hands wearing clown gloves grabbed her shoulders and pulled on her. Rose punched through the light but her fists didn’t find a body. After a minute of struggling, the light was gone, and so were the voice and the hands. She was alone in the room in the dark. There was nobody with her.
She searched around for Valerie’s phone and dialed Shawn.
Shawn looked under the bed. He wanted to believe Rose. But he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.
“The part of me that read the journal believes you,” he said, “but stuff like that just doesn’t happen.”
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