A worn camera viewfinder flickers to life. Jay Merrick’s voice is low and uneven, as if he’s talking to himself more than anyone else.

"Entry Log… I— I don’t even know anymore. The date’s scribbled somewhere on a scrap of paper by my bed, but I can’t trust that either. The tape I found this morning—no, wait, was it last night?—shows a hallway. Yellowed walls, peeling near the baseboard. Footsteps echo, but there’s no one there. I swear I heard whispering… or maybe that was the fridge cycling on. I’m not sure."

He shifts the camera; it catches a glimpse of a cluttered desk stacked with tapes labeled “Alex,” “Tim,” “Entry #47,” and one blank, hastily marked “?.”

"I keep telling myself: “It’s all in the footage. Just review it, rewind, freeze-frame. If I can catch the frame where the figure’s just off-camera…” But it never stays still. It never stays still."

Jay presses a shaky hand against his forehead.

"There was a knock— or was it a thud? Something hit the windowpane. I flipped the lights on and off to check if it was just a branch. No movement outside. But then—nothing. Silence. That’s what terrifies me most: no noise, no sign, and yet… I feel eyes on me."

He exhales, like half-laughing to himself.

"I used to think I could control this. I used to think that if I documented every single thing—timestamps, camera angles, timestamps again—I’d piece it all together. But the more I look, the more I’m certain I’m the one missing. I’m missing. Something doesn’t match up. The tape from last week shows me turning left at the corner… but I swear I turned right. Memory gaps. And those look-alikes… the reflections in mirrors that don’t match my position—I swear, it’s like someone else was there. Maybe someone always was."

He glances down at a photo of Alex taped to his wall—partially torn, as if a struggle left its mark.

"Alex believed he could escape it. He thought uploading the footage would solve it. But now… I keep asking myself: what was he running from? And did he ever find an answer? Because I haven’t. I— I’m still searching."

He adjusts the camera’s focus; flecks of dust drift across the lens like static.

"Sometimes I wonder if I should just stop. Let the tapes sit in the dark. Throw this camera away. But then I remember the look in Tim’s eyes that night—the one where he removed the mask. The hollow… desperation. He didn’t have a choice. None of us do. If I don’t keep watching, if I don’t keep recording, then who will? Who will see what’s creeping through the edges of the frame?"

Jay’s breathing quickens; he forces himself to steady it.

"Alright. Entry read. Lights still flicker behind me, and the hallway’s empty. For now. I’ll keep checking. I just… need to know what’s real. Whether this is still me—or just a shell, replaying the same loop until the tape runs out."

A final pause, as if he’s listening for something.

"I— I guess that’s it for now. If you’re here… don’t worry about me. I’ll keep looking. Maybe I’ll catch something. Maybe I’ll finally see… whatever it is that’s been waiting."

He hits “stop” on the recorder.