The room smelled faintly of bleach and cigarettes, the kind of odor that clung stubbornly no matter how hard you tried to remove it. The wallpaper was old and peeling at the corners, while the carpet was stained in various dark patches, obscuring its original pattern, and the flickering neon from the motel sign outside cast an eerie green glow through the window. Andy hadn’t even unpacked yet when his hands instinctively began searching for the remote, craving some sort of noise to break the overbearing silence. Instead, he found something else tucked beneath the comforter: a battered leather journal, its cover scarred with scratches that seemed too deliberate to be mere wear.

On the first page was an entry dated for tomorrow—_August 19th_. He struggled to read the sloppy handwriting: a detailed account of his final hours, down to the minute. By the time he reached the paragraph that vividly described his brutal death, the room had grown colder, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Before he could even process what he had just read, a loud ring cut through the air. His pulse jumped, and his gaze darted to the dresser beneath the TV where his phone buzzed against the wood. For a moment, he hesitated, but eventually forced his legs to move, very slowly, until he picked it up and pressed it to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice was low and uncertain, as if he expected nothing but static.

Instead, he heard his mother’s cheerful voice. “Andy? Is that you?”

A sigh of relief escaped his lips. Maybe the journal was nothing more than some cruel prank. Or a hallucination, his sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on him. Any explanation was better than it being real.

“Yes, Mom. It’s me.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I was just calling to see if you were okay, sweetie. You made it to the motel, right? Did you stop and get something to eat? How’s the room? It’s not that bad, is it? Remember to check the bed before you—”

“Everything is fine, Mom,” Andy interrupted her before she could continue on. His tiredness was heavier than his patience. “I’ll call you in the morning. Long day tomorrow. I just need to sleep.”

She groaned in protest but relented, her goodnight echoing into the silence that followed when she hung up.

Andy lowered the phone and took a deep breath. Then he switched his phone to silent and whispered to himself: _I’ll just sleep. In the morning, this will all be gone._

Before he could lower himself onto the bed, three quick knocks rattled the door. His heart raced, and he spun toward it. The instinctive fear rising in his chest quickly turned to irritation. Whoever was messing with him would soon regret it.

He walked to the door and yanked it open, but nobody was there. He stepped outside, scanning the surroundings and the long row of doors, when one of them creaked open.

A man stumbled out, eyes locking on Andy’s. His face twisted in anger as he rushed toward him.

“Hey!” the man shouted. “What’s your problem?”

Andy stepped back, “What?”

“You just knocked on my door, right? And was it you who left that stupid journal in my bed?”

For a moment, Andy could only stare, his words catching in his throat. “I—I just came out because someone knocked on my door. I didn’t touch yours.” Then he realized what the man had said. “Wait. You found a journal too?”

The man hesitated, his anger giving way to a growing sense of unease. “Yeah… sorry. It just freaked me out. Probably one of my buddies screwing with me.”

“No,” Andy said quickly, shaking his head. “Listen—I found one, too.”

“Dated August 19th?”

Andy’s stomach dropped. He nodded. “An exact telling of how you’ll die?”

The man’s eyes widened. “So it’s not a prank?”

“I don’t know,” Andy whispered.

A cold gust swept down the hallway, stirring the air between them. Both men shivered, their fear unspoken but shared. Whatever this was, neither of them could deny it anymore. And now, they had no choice but to find out the truth.