After your grandmother’s death, you moved into her old, antique wooden house. After your mother remarried, her new home became chaotic with her husband’s children and your siblings, making daily life unbearable. Seeking peace, the abandoned house became your sanctuary, a quiet retreat where you could escape and focus on writing.

You were known for your horror novels, especially those about serial killers. The solitude of the house filled you with inspiration, pushing you to begin a new story. You pulled out your journal and began crafting a tale about a killer who left his mark by carving AV into his victims’ foreheads. The details were vivid, chilling, and precise. But soon, something unimaginable began to happen the crimes you described started occurring in real life, matching every detail you had written.

At first, you dismissed it as coincidence, but as more murders unfolded exactly as you had envisioned, a deep sense of dread took hold of you. Each new entry in your journal seemed to come alive in the most horrifying way, yet you were completely alone in the house. There were no signs of anyone else being there, no explanation for how these crimes were being carried out.

Determined to stop this nightmare, you devised a plan. You wrote a poorly executed crime, filled with glaring mistakes and evidence designed to ensure the killer would be caught. But to your shock, nothing happened. The crime you described simply didn’t occur, as though someone had chosen to ignore it.

Days passed in tense silence, the journal untouched. For a moment, you thought it was over. But one night, as you flipped through its pages, you found a note placed on top. In unfamiliar handwriting, it read:

You’ve disappointed me. The last crime wasn’t perfect. Write more, my baby, and inspire me.

You decided to go upstairs, a floor you had never entered before. When you opened the door, the room was dark, but the bathroom door was slightly ajar with the light on. The sound of the running shower filled the silence. Then it stopped.