I Found My Old Diary, But I Don’t Remember Writing It

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Discovery

I didn't anticipate discovering anything. I was back in the house I grew up in, just organizing things before my parents sold them. Boxes, furniture, nothing special.

Then, I found it.

There was a little, worn leather diary in my old room, tucked away beneath a pile of old books.

I didn't identify it at first. It looked old, but I couldn’t remember it. It felt familiar but distant. I took it up and opened it even though I had no idea why.

The pages were yellowed, fragile. I started reading.

The first entries were normal kid stuff: school, friends, family. Nothing unusual. It felt like reading a stranger’s life. Then, I hit a page that stopped me.

It was from just before my twelfth birthday. The entry described a dinner I couldn’t remember. It said my parents argued loudly about money. But I always remembered quiet family dinners. This didn’t match.

Maybe it was nothing. Just a kid’s imagination. I pushed it aside and turned the page.

That’s when it got strange.

The next entry read, “I don’t like the man in the coat. I see him in the garden sometimes. He just stands there, watching.”

I froze. I didn’t remember any man in a coat. Who was that? I kept flipping. It got worse. The diary mentioned things I couldn’t recall—noises at night, a window left open, a name I didn’t recognize.

The final entry: "My parents assumed I was dreaming when I told them about the man in the cloak. I am not believed by them. Nobody believes me.”

I slammed the diary shut. My heart raced. Was this mine? I didn’t remember any of it. It didn’t feel like my memories.

Holding the journal, I sat there attempting to interpret it. I was unwilling to consider it. Perhaps it was simply a strange child's dream. But that bothered me more and more the more I thought about it.

How could I know about a man in a coat I’d never seen?

I shoved the diary in my bag and left. I didn’t want to deal with it now.

However, I couldn't get rid of the impression that this wasn't finished when I left. Something felt wrong.


The Memories That Aren’t Mine

I couldn’t stop thinking about the diary. I tried to push it out, but the more I tried, the more I wanted to open it. The man in the coat. The weird details. What if it was just some childhood fantasy? But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

I sat in my car the next day, gazing at the bag containing the diary. The ancient home had me parked in front of it. A part of me needed to know, but another part of me didn't want to open it. I inhaled deeply before removing the journal.

I opened to the first page, reading again.

At first, it seemed normal: school, neighborhood, random things about my life. But then, something made my stomach drop.

An entry described a memory I had completely forgotten. It was about my best friend, Mark. We were by the woods behind my house. He talked about a treehouse. I didn’t remember it. But the diary said we spent hours there. I didn’t recall any of it.

I turned the page. Another entry about Mark. This time, it mentioned a fight. A fight I didn’t remember. The diary said I’d pushed him, argued, and sworn never to speak again. I had no memory of that fight. No memory after. Why didn’t I remember?

I felt cold sweat on my back.

Then I found something else. The diary mentioned Rachel, a classmate who disappeared months after I left for college. I barely knew her, but the diary said differently. It said I’d been close to her. That I’d lied about her disappearance.

I stopped. My hands shook. I couldn’t have written this. I couldn’t have.

I slammed the diary shut, breathing hard. What did it mean? The entries were vivid, detailed. They felt real, but I couldn’t recall any of it. How could I forget so much? How could I have written this?

I called Mark. I didn’t know what else to do.

He sounded aloof when he responded.

I said, attempting to seem regular, "Hey, it's me."

“Oh, hey man,” Mark said, sounding distant. “What’s up?”

I hesitated. “Do you remember the fight? Behind the woods, the treehouse?”

There was a pause. “What are you talking about? That never happened.”

A chill ran down my spine. “What?”

“Dude, we never fought. What on earth are you discussing? His voice was flat as he spoke.

I thought I was losing my mind. If it wasn't genuine, how could I recall it so well?

I hung up and said, "Forget it."

I threw my phone on the seat. The diary sat on my lap. I stared at it. I didn’t know what was real anymore.

Though they weren't, the recollections felt like mine. They returned more and more the more I tried to ignore them. drawing me more into an incomprehensible realm.

I had to stop. But I couldn’t.


The Lies That Won’t Let Go

I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced, looping over everything I had learned from the diary. Mark, Rachel, the things I didn’t remember—it was all a mess. I was unable to understand it. I knew the recollections didn't fit my reality, but they were too strong to ignore. I felt lost every second, but I had to figure out what was going on.

The next few days, I paced my apartment. The diary never left my side. Every time I tried to leave it alone, I ended up reading it. I searched for answers that didn’t exist. The more I read, the less I recognized myself.

Then, I remembered something—Mrs. Grayson. My old neighbor. She had always been odd, but I remembered her knowing things about my life. She knew my family, childhood, even my school. I thought she might know something, something that made sense of all this.

I decided to visit her.

Her home smelled of dust and old books, and it was silent and dark. Her eyes grew wide when she opened the door. She briefly gave me the impression that she had seen a ghost.

“David,” she said, voice shaky. “It’s been a long time.”

“I need to ask you something,” I said, urgency rising. “I found something—something I don’t understand. It’s about my past. Things I’ve forgotten.”

She hesitated, then stepped aside. She let me in.

We sat at her kitchen table. The air was dense with unsaid words and felt heavy. I had to ask even if I didn't want to. "Do you have any memories of my early years?  Anything strange? Mark or Rachel?”

Her face went pale. She looked away, tapping her cup. “David... you need to forget about it. It’s all in the past. You don’t need to dig it up.”

“But I can’t forget,” I said, voice rising. “The diary—”

She cut me off. “I know about the diary.” Her voice dropped low. “I saw it before, when you were a child. It wasn’t meant for you to remember. You weren’t supposed to know.”

I froze. “What do you mean? Why would I write things I don’t remember? Why are there things in it that didn’t happen?”

Her eyes darkened. "You weren't at fault. This is not how it was supposed to be. But you have to stop asking. You’ve been manipulated—by people you don’t even know. The diary was never meant to make sense. It’s all part of a... larger picture. You can’t escape it now.”

My mind spun. None of this made sense. “Who’s behind this? What’s going on?”

She stood up abruptly, her voice shaking. “I don’t know. But you have to stop looking. If you keep going, you’ll find things no one should remember. Some things are better left forgotten.”

I left her house, more confused than ever. My thoughts seemed to be racing. The fragments slid through my fingers more and more as I attempted to bring them together.

Back at my apartment, I looked at the diary. It sat in my bag. The answer was right there, just out of reach. Every time I tried to understand, the truth slipped further away.

That night, I opened the diary again. I read the entries over and over. And then, the patterns started to emerge. The memories that weren’t mine. The people who didn’t belong. It all clicked. Everything fell into one horrifying conclusion.

I wasn’t the one writing the diary.

The final entry was different. It was dated today, as if written just moments before I found it. The words were clear, almost mocking:

“Welcome back, David. You’ve remembered everything. The truth will always catch up with you.”

I dropped the diary. My hands shook. But I already knew the truth. The diary wasn’t mine. Someone planted it there—someone who knew everything about me. Things I never thought to question. And now, as the pieces fell into place, I realized I couldn’t escape.

Because I had been trapped all along.

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