I Found My Own Diary in a Dead Man’s Pocket

It was supposed to be just another John Doe.

Middle-aged, no ID, found slumped against the dumpster behind 8th and Larch. A bullet in the gut, no witnesses, no cameras. Routine — if you could ever call a corpse routine.

Detective Martin handed me the evidence bag with a shrug. “Found this in his coat pocket. Not a wallet. Just… this.”

It was a small, black notebook — cracked leather, worn edges. Something about it felt familiar. My stomach twisted before I even opened it.

Then I did.

And my breath froze.

The handwriting was mine.

Not similar. Not close. Mine.

Same way I loop my Ls. The stupid, inconsistent way I cross my Ts. Even the smudge where I press too hard with the pen.

I flipped through pages, the way you flip through a nightmare. And I found entries. Dozens of them. Dated. Detailed.

May 3rd — she watched me again. The girl with the red scarf. She thinks I don’t see her. I always see her.

May 7th — the mirror is lying to me again. That’s not my face. That’s not mine.

I could feel my heart galloping now, chest tight with a fear I hadn’t felt since childhood — that old, primal something-is-wrong kind of fear. I read more, faster, half-hoping I’d find a punchline. That it was a prank. That someone copied my journal style. That someone—

But then I saw my name. Over and over.

Why does James pretend he doesn’t remember?

He left the window open again. I think he wants me to come in.

I touched his toothbrush this time. That should get his attention.

I dropped the notebook.

Martin raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

I fumbled a nod with an unwanted smile “Yeah. Yeah, just—uh, deja vu.”

He didn’t press. He never does. I bagged the diary again and took it with me for processing, though I didn’t mention that I kept a duplicate tucked inside my coat.

That night, I pulled out my journal. My real one. The one in my bedside drawer. It was identical in appearance — same wear, same leather.

But mine was empty.

Every single page.

Blank.

I flipped through three times, like the words would reappear if I just tried harder.

Nothing.

I grabbed the dead man’s copy again. Still full. Still mine. Only… more so.

It detailed things I never wrote. Thoughts I never consciously had.

June 1st — he heard the whisper this time. It came from the drain. I know it did. He won’t admit it yet, but it spoke.

My hands were shaking now.

I turned to the last page.

June 14th — he will find this. I will be dead. And then, maybe, he’ll finally wake up.

I didn’t sleep. I watched my door all night, waiting for it to creak open. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching. Not following. Not chasing.

Watching.

Like I was on a stage, reading lines someone else had written for me.

At 3:12 AM, my phone buzzed.

A message.

Unknown Number: “Why are you pretending it isn’t yours?”

I didn’t reply. I deleted the text. Then turned off the phone. I paced for an hour. Drank water. I couldn't even blink.

At 4:40, there was a knock at the door.

Three soft taps. Then silence.

I stood there, staring through the peephole. No one. Just the hallway — yellow-lit and still.

Another message. Even though my phone was off.

Unknown Number: “The body was just a vessel. Like yours.”

The next day, the morgue called.

“James,” the pathologist said, “you might want to come down here.”

The body was gone.

Gone.

Not misplaced. Not switched. Not misidentified.

Gone.

Like it had stood up and walked out.

I stopped reporting to work after that.

I stared at my walls. I memorized the cracks. I searched my apartment for cameras I didn’t find. Every sound from the pipes sounded like whispering. Every mirror felt like it was lagging just a second behind.

And the journal — the dead man’s journal — kept changing.

Every time I opened it, there were new pages. New entries. Dated in real time.

June 15th — he’s unraveling. Good. That’s when he’s closest to the truth.

June 16th — he still doesn’t understand. The body was never his. Just a borrowed thing. A container.

I tried burning it.

The pages wouldn’t catch.

I tried throwing it in the river.

It was back on my desk the next morning.

I started dreaming of mirrors.

In them, I was… different. Something behind the skin. Like someone else was piloting me, and I was only just now starting to claw my way back to the controls.

One night, I dreamt I was opening a door — not as James, but as someone else. A man bleeding from the stomach. A man stumbling into an alley.

I looked down in the dream.

There was a notebook in my coat pocket.

I don’t know who the dead man was.

Maybe I was him.

Maybe he’s the real one, and I’m just the memory of a person trying desperately to stay alive by pretending to still exist.

Or maybe the body was never mine to begin with.

Today, the journal had only one new entry.

June 18th — it’s time to leave this skin. Let someone else wear it now.