The fourth day.
Morning, although it doesn't seem like morning. Everything is dark, cloudy, damp.
I woke up with a heavy head. At first I couldn't remember why I fell asleep in boots and a jacket. Then I remembered yesterday evening - the water, the cold, and that strange entry in the diary.
It was because of the diary that I woke up abruptly, my heart pounding, as if I was running away from someone in a dream. I sat for a few more minutes, not daring to open the page, again and again assuring myself that yesterday was just a dream or delirium from overwork. But I understood perfectly well that I was deceiving myself.
I opened it.
The entry was there. The same one, someone else's, not in my hand, and I clearly saw how the lines were pressed a little harder than I usually write. The handwriting was unfamiliar, the letters were sharp, a little elongated - definitely not my style. If it were my handwriting, I would know. And no, I couldn't forget writing it myself. It wasn't my thought. It wasn't my words.
Written just below, in smaller letters:
"Or maybe I'm going completely crazy. I'm talking to my diary as if it could answer."
But he answered, didn't he? No, no. I'm still holding on.
I need to move on. I can't stay here any longer. Maybe the strangeness is in this place, not in me. If I leave, the recordings will stop.
Yes, that's right. I need to move on.
Day, a rest stop under an old, dried-up tree. The crown is so huge that it seems that this tree has lived for hundreds of years. Maybe even a thousand. Why did it die? The branches are dry, like old bones. I walked a few more kilometers. So far, it's quiet. No traces, no sounds. Even the rustling that I heard yesterday and this morning is gone now. This calms me down. At least a little.
Now I'm sitting under the tree. For some reason, I wanted to stop here. As if it called me. Or is this my imagination again? Damn, why do I now doubt every thought?
The tree really is strange. The trunk is thick, the bark is black and dry, but underneath it, something is glittering, as if it were covered with a very thin layer of some metal or resin. I tried to break off a piece of bark - it crumbles in my hands like ash. But now my fingers feel like they are slightly burning. What kind of place is this anyway?
Added to the side of the sheet, obviously later, hastily:
"Something is carved on the trunk. It looks like an old symbol. A triangle, with a spiral inside. I've seen something similar before, but I can't remember where exactly. Triangles… Why them again?"
Another note to the side, the handwriting smaller and more tense:
"I'm almost sure this symbol wasn't here when I first came here. It appeared while I was sitting and writing."
Below, even smaller, almost unnoticeably:
"Is someone playing a joke on me again?"
Evening, second stop, didn't pitch a tent today, just a fire, lit hotter than usual.
"Today I reached a river that wasn't on the map. And no, it's not a stream, but a river – deep, wide, the water is black, heavy, slow. Similar to the one from yesterday, only here it flows normally. No "up the rocks". Just water. But it still worries.
I tried to find the place to cross, but the bank seems to drop off steeply down, the water is far away, the bottom is not visible. I will look tomorrow, it is already late today."
Rudely crossed out:
"I don't like spending the night so close to the water after yesterday. No. I will not sleep. I don't want to wake up again with other people's words in my diary.
I need to watch who comes here."
Below, already with some self-irony:
"Yeah, right. I am a famous hero who stays up all night and watches. I didn't even notice how I started talking to myself in the diary, as if it were alive. Again."
Night. The moon has almost disappeared, but the sun has not yet appeared. I write quickly, my hands are shaking a little.
"I woke up from the sound of footsteps. Small, quiet. As if someone was walking right behind me.
I turn around - no one. But around again there are those same footprints, small, clear. Feet. Like children's.
But now they go not only around the fire. They lead down to the river. As if showing the way. I do not want to go, but I know for sure that I will. I will not be able to fall asleep until I check where they lead. Maybe I will finally find out who is walking nearby.
I will go now. But first - I will write here, to remember:
If someone else reads this, if someone finds this diary, let it be clear: I have not gone crazy. I am following the footprints, because there is no other way out.
And if I do not return ... well, then I was not so smart. Or careful."
I'm going.
The very last entry, added very small, hastily. Again, someone else's handwriting. Right under my entry:
"Don't go there, Ellie. They've been waiting for you there. For a long time."
What does that mean? Who's waiting for me? Why "for a long time"? That's it. There's no more time to waste. Let them wait. I can't just sit and be afraid.
A little later in the morning, another diary, another rest stop, still nervous. But better.
Before going down to the river, I finally forced myself to have a proper breakfast. My hands were barely obeying me, but I decided that even if someone were to kidnap me now, it would be better to do it on a full stomach.
"I ate the dried meat I bought in the city, nuts, and half of that sweet pie I got from the shopkeeper at the eastern gate. What did he say? "Girl, if you eat it all at once, you'll never get anywhere." Well, I didn't eat it. Although I wanted it terribly, I don't know what he makes the dough out of, but it was the best thing I've eaten in months.
And now, remembering that pie, I'm not so angry at the world for the devilry that's going on in it."
While I was having breakfast, I noticed people. Real, living people, not those strange tracks. Two men and a girl, walking along the road to the south, not guild members, clearly ordinary travelers or merchants. I called out to them to find out what the situation was like ahead and who they were.
They approached without fear, although the girl looked at me warily, as if she had seen a ghost. I didn't say that I had the same feelings.
The conversation was short, but generally normal. They turned out to be simple fabric merchants, returning from a small settlement further along the eastern road. They said it was quieter there, but the road was bad, too damp and some strange fog. I asked about the river, they were surprised. They said that there were no rivers here. Only a few old streams that had dried up long ago.
Did they really not see it? Or was I seeing something that wasn't there?
One of the men, the oldest, offered to buy some fabric from them, clearly not missing the chance to make a little money. I refused politely, although the fabric really did look good. The girl offered to take the rest of their hot tea, which I, of course, did not refuse. The tea turned out to be excellent, it warmed my hands and cleared my thoughts.
We said goodbye quickly, wished each other a good journey. No one tried to rob, kidnap or intimidate anyone. It's even strange that I expected exactly this. At least a little bit back to normal. People are like people, the road is like a road, the pie is like a pie. So the problem is definitely not in me. Or, on the contrary, definitely in me?
"Or maybe it's not in me or the road, but in the fact that I think too much?"
Midday, closer to the river, the strangeness increases.
I approached the river. Dark, wide. The tracks here are clear again, as if burned into the ground. They went straight to the water, then turned sharply to the left along the bank. I did not go right away. I waited, listening to the silence. The water flowed slowly, without splashes, and in this silence it was clearly felt that it was watching.
Gradually it began to seem that somewhere very close, behind my back, someone was whispering. I looked back - empty. But the feeling remained.
There are no new alien entries in the diary. I checked three times. So, I haven't gone crazy. For now.
Added very small, on the side, nervously:
"If I start a dialogue with other people's notes, then it's definitely time to call the doctors."
I look at the tracks again. They go along the shore, as if pointing somewhere further, downstream. I should probably go, otherwise I'll just freeze in place from waiting. Moreover, I'm not so afraid anymore when there is something specific nearby that I can see and touch. Even if it's someone very strange who wants to play hide and seek with me.
I follow the tracks. Or am I being led? I'll find out soon.
Evening, very close to the river, written on my knees, hastily and incoherently.
"The tracks led me to an old wooden pier. Rotten and half-flooded, as if no one had used it for several decades. For some reason I decided to look around more carefully - it seems I'm already getting used to this feeling of strangeness."
At the end of the pier, right by the water, I found a small metal medallion. A triangle inside a circle. The same symbol as on the tree. Old, worn. It was wet, but the water was icy. I picked up the medallion - I felt something inside me respond again. A familiar feeling, as if the world had decided that I needed another "blessing" again. But I didn't kill anyone, didn't defeat anyone? So it's not that. Something else. Why are the symbols repeating? What kind of game is being played here?
Added later, it's already getting dark, the handwriting is barely legible, my hand is shaking:
"I think I understand why the tracks ended abruptly.
Because I can see them right up until the moment when I find myself in the same place as the one who left them."
Just now, while I was writing this entry, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. On the other side of the river, on the other bank, someone was standing. A small figure, barely visible in the gathering darkness. And I'm almost certain it's not a child. It's just standing there. And looking. At me.
Almost in a whisper, written very small and unevenly:
"Someone definitely wants me to cross the river. And I'm afraid I won't be able to stop even if I want to."