Chapter 15: The Threshold of Truth

Alex's hand rested on the doorknob, quivering like some unseen force urging him to turn back. The decrepit house spread before him, a silhouette to remind him of ghosts from his past. The distorted wooden door rasped with slight pressure under his fingers, as if protesting his presence.

For years, Alex had shunned this house—in life and in recollection. It was more than a house; it was a graveyard of unanswered questions and hidden truths. Yet here he stood, with the faint whispers of the journal guiding him to confront what lay beyond.

Taking a deep breath, Alex pushed the door open. It creaked loudly, and the resonance of the sound echoed through the hollow halls inside. The air in there was thick and heavy, damp, and stale, laced with the faint scent of mildew and something metallic that he couldn't quite place. The floor beneath him sagged a little, protesting under his weight.

His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating fragments of a life once lived. A toppled chair lay in the corner, its legs splintered. Picture frames hung crookedly on the peeling walls, their glass cracked or missing entirely. Alex dared to step closer, aiming the light at one of the frames.

The photograph inside was faded, but he knew it immediately: a younger version of himself, no older than ten, standing between two adults. The man's hand rested firmly on Alex's shoulder, his smile wide but forced, while the woman's eyes seemed to carry a weight Alex had never noticed before. His own expression was blank, as if even then he had sensed something was wrong.

Alex's chest grew tight as he brought the flashlight down low. "Why didn't I remember this?" he whispered to himself.

The journal vibrated softly in his hand, as if pushing him forward. He stepped carefully through the room, kicking up dust and memories with each step. Behind him he heard a faint scuffling of a floorboard in its protest of being creaked to life.

He spun around, flashlight slicing through the shadows, but nothing was there. The silence grew oppressive, pressing against his ears like a deafening hum. Alex shook his head and pushed on, though every nerve in his body screamed for him to leave.

The journal felt heavier in his hand. He could not ignore its existence. He turned a corner into a narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway was a door that stood slightly ajar, with a dim light flickering within.

He hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. That room… he knew it, even though he hadn't stepped foot in this house in years. It was the study, where his father had spent countless hours locked away.

The door seemed to beckon him, its faint creak like an invitation. Alex's legs felt like lead as he moved forward. Each step was a battle against the rising tide of fear that threatened to overwhelm him.

And when he had finally reached the door, he had pushed it open with quivering fingers. In the room was chaos—papers everywhere on the desk and floor, books fallen from their shelves. Amidst all this disorder at the center of the desk was a typewriter, its keys hidden beneath a layer of dust.

But what caught Alex's attention was the journal sitting open on the desk. It was identical to the one in his hand.

"How…" Alex whispered, his voice barely audible.

The journal on the desk had begun to glow faintly; its pages started to flip over, and Alex reached out toward it, though everything inside of him screamed not to. As the pages finally lay flat, there was one thing written in jagged, bold letters across a page: "You are not alone.".