Room 315 Diary
[28/04/2025]
"On the answering machine, a scratchy voice whispered, 'Don't turn around.' But the phone was disconnected."
— Vox Occulta
[26/04/2025]
"The rain knocked on the window with the knuckles of someone I no longer remembered."
— Elis
[24/04/2025]
"A childish drawing appeared on the wall. It depicts my room… but with an added shadow."
— Kyle Mason
[22/04/2025]
"From the closet came a distorted lullaby. When I opened it, only clothes and silence."
— Orrin
[20/04/2025]
"An old mirror in the attic reflected a room that is no longer mine."
— Elis
[2025-04-18]
"On the floor, wet footprints formed a sentence: 'I'm coming back.'"
— Vox Occulta
[2025-04-16]
"The recorder turned itself on. It played my own breathing, but upside down."
— Kyle Mason
[14/04/2025]
"The house clock chimed an hour earlier than midnight. Something has been early ever since."
— Orrin
Archive - 8 Mar to 13 Apr, 2025
[13/04/2025]
"The morning light left a message on my ceiling. It vanished before I could read it."
— Kyle Mason
[09/04/2025]
"In the dream, I walked among trees with no shadows. Only the leaves watched me fall."
— Orrin
[04/04/2025]
"The photographs on the wall change positions when I'm not looking. But none of them show me."
— Elis
[01/04/2025]
"Fake snow was falling even in spring. But the footprints beneath were real."
— Vox Occulta
[29/03/2025]
"In the car graveyard, a radio started playing. The song my mother used to hum as a child."
— Kyle Mason
[27/03/2025]
"The diary I burned as a boy reappeared last night on my pillow. One page is missing."
— Orrin
[25/03/2025]
"The basement door opened on its own. No sound. No reason. Just an old, familiar scent."
— Elis
[23/03/2025]
"Behind the curtain, a light pulses on and off. It’s not coming from outside. Not from inside either."
— Vox Occulta
[21/03/2025]
"A doll abandoned in the mud followed me with its eyes. Or maybe I was following them."
— Kyle Mason
[18/03/2025]
"Every time I touch that mirror, my reflection smiles a second before I do."
— Elis
[16/03/2025]
"Some dreams don’t fade when you wake. They wait in the hallway, unmoving."
— Orrin
[14/03/2025]
"I dreamt of a sunken city where voices poured from the cracks in the walls. Mine was the only one silent."
— Vox Occulta
[12/03/2025]
"I found an unsent postcard. On the back, a strange hand had written only: 'Return when the air smells like rain.'"
— Kyle Mason
[10/03/2025]
"The streetlamp outside starts shaking at the same time every night. Like something's rattling it from inside."
— Elis
[08/03/2025]
"There was a voice on the dead radio. No words, just breathing. But it knew my name."
— Orrin
Archive - 10 to 28 Feb, 2025
[28/02/2026]
"Someone left roses on the doorstep. They were already dried, as if they remembered being forgotten."
— Elis
[27/02/2026]
"The elevator in the abandoned hospital stopped at a floor that no longer exists."
— Vox Occulta
[26/02/2026]
"We buried the clock under the roots. Time still ticks in the soil, soft and patient."
— Kyle Mason
[25/02/2026]
"The fog whispered my name backwards. I almost answered."
— Orrin
[23/02/2026]
"She kept a photo where no face was visible, only a hand waving from the edge of forgetting."
— Elis
[22/02/2026]
"If you listen beneath the floorboards, you can hear the lullaby the house sings to itself."
— Vox Occulta
[20/02/2026]
"Some windows don’t look out — they look in."
— Orrin
[19/02/2026]
"I remember your voice most clearly when the power goes out."
— Elis
[18/02/2026]
"Every four years, the town forgets someone. No one ever asks who."
— Vox Occulta
[16/02/2026]
"The attic keeps changing. I stopped going up there when I found my own handwriting on the walls."
— Kyle Mason
[15/02/2026]
"You can tell how long someone’s been gone by the color of dust they leave behind."
— Orrin
[14/02/2026]
"The hallway grew longer each night. By dawn, it touched the woods."
— Vox Occulta
[13/02/2026]
"I woke to the sound of pages turning. The book was closed."
— Elis
[12/02/2026]
"On cold mornings, the breath on the mirror forms words I don’t remember saying."
— Kyle Mason
[10/02/2026]
"A girl in the library said she was reading my future. Then she vanished between the shelves."
— Orrin
Archive - 22 Jan to 9 Feb, 2025
[09/02/2026]
"I followed the sound of weeping down the hallway. It was only the wind, learning how to mourn."
— Orrin
[08/02/2026]
"The mirror in the guest room shows a version of me who never left. Sometimes, I envy him."
— Kyle Mason
[07/02/2026]
"You wrote me a letter in your sleep. I found it burned into the bedsheets."
— Elis
[06/02/2026]
"In the static of an old radio, I heard my name pronounced the way only my grandmother used to."
— Vox Occulta
[05/02/2026]
"Beneath the snow, there are footprints that don't match any known creature. They always lead to the same locked cellar."
— Orrin
[04/02/2026]
"She left a lullaby on the answering machine. It plays by itself every night at 3:11 AM."
— Vox Occulta
[03/02/2026]
"There’s a place between seconds where the house breathes. That’s where I hide your memory."
— Elis
[02/02/2026]
"Rain began falling inside the house. None of the clocks noticed."
— Kyle Mason
[01/02/2026]
"Every February, the lake freezes over with names etched into the ice. I never see who writes them."
— Elis
[30/01/2025]
"They said no one lives in the old motel anymore. But some nights, if you walk by Room 315, you can still hear the faint hum of a lullaby."
— Vox Occulta
[29/01/2025]
"I wrote your name in the condensation on the window. By morning, it had melted into something I could no longer read."
— Elis
[28/01/2025]
"The streetlights blinked out, one by one. Only the stars dared to stay, watching in silence as the city crumbled under the weight of its own dreams."
— Orrin
[26/01/2025]
"A staircase led down into the earth, twisting forever. At the bottom, only the sound of dripping water and the faint echo of my mother's lullaby."
— Kyle Mason
[25/01/2025]
"The sea and the sky once spoke the same language. Now, they only echo each other’s loneliness."
— Elis
[22/01/2025]
"Nothing truly vanishes. It simply waits where the eye refuses to look."
— Vox Occulta
Archive - 12 Nov to 20 Dec, 2024
[20/12/2024]
"A staircase led down into the earth, twisting forever. At the bottom, only the sound of dripping water and the faint echo of my mother's lullaby."
— Kyle
[18/12/2024]
"In the fog, I saw a figure waving. When I reached it, I realized it was only a mirror, and I was waving at myself, a thousand years older."
— Orrin
[15/12/2024]
"A staircase led down into the earth, twisting forever. At the bottom, only the sound of dripping water and the faint echo of my mother's lullaby."
— Kyle Mason
[12/12/2024]
"Last night, a train passed through the forest. No tracks. No sound. Only the smell of iron and regret lingered behind."
— Vox Occulta
[09/12/2024]
"I dreamt of a house with too many doors. Each one opened to a colder version of myself."
— Kyle Mason
[07/12/2024]
"You can measure absence by the weight it leaves behind."
— Orrin
[05/12/2024]
"The sea and the sky once spoke the same language. Now, they only echo each other’s loneliness."
— Elis
[02/12/2024]
"Nothing truly vanishes. It simply waits where the eye refuses to look."
— Vox Occulta
[30/11/2024]
"Sometimes, I am just a hallway waiting for someone to choose the wrong door."
— Kyle Mason
[27/11/2024]
"In the static between songs, I hear the footsteps I swore were only dreams."
— Orrin
[25/11/2024]
"Tonight, the rain fell sideways, scraping secrets off the broken windows. I could almost hear your hands against the glass."
— Elis
[21/11/2024]
"If you stare long enough into the fog, the fog will learn your name."
— Vox Occulta
[17/11/2024]
"There are houses that hum at night. They remember the ones who no longer knock."
— Orrin
[14/11/2024]
"Once, I woke up inside a memory I had never lived. The scent of wet pine trees stayed with me for hours."
— Kyle Mason
[12/11/2024]
"Not every silence is empty. Some silences are full of everything we lost."
— Elis
