Novel & Cerita The Dumont Diaries

The sides of the pages of the diary crumble in my hands and are reduced to ashes. The sun has come out and I start to sweat. I look at the diary. It has nothing written on the cover, except the year—2010—which is faded. There is no auto in sight. I sit on the pavement and flip through the contents. It is nearly full. The handwriting is not the best, but it is neat and deliberate. The first few pages are damaged beyond recognition. The top-right corners of the pages keep crumbling into charcoal.

“How did you know about Ancanta? How do you know I received that memento the day we met.” Aubrey maintained his cool as he cautiously drew a little notebook the size of my hand from his breast pocket. The notebook had a burnt corner, but it was still fully page. The journal appears to be ancient, with beautifully scribbled lines; it's Ancanta's diary, which I believe I've misplaced.

We both looked at the woman in black when she spoke. "Daniell Jane Cruz." My eyes widened when she mentioned my full name. "Cyrille Bertiz." Cyrille and I looked at each other. "H-how did you know our name?" Cyrille asked tremblingly. The woman did not answer. We also couldn’t see her face because it was covered. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall Humpty Dumpty had a great fall All the king’s horses and all the king’s men Couldn’t put Humpty together again.” My hand kept shaking. That song

My first memoir in a new diary. My old diary was filled with stories and stories of girls I've fucked and turned but after this incident that happened on 23/4/2027 I had to start a new diary. So... I was angry that mum was remarrying. I really hate the thought that she couldn't keep her pussy at check after dad's death and jumped into another man's arms. However, she kept reassuring me that it's going to be fine but I hate it as hell.

I know. I grab the remote of the medium-sized TV hanging on the wall, switching it on. Perhaps a little distraction will help, but my jaw drops at the first image on display. The video coverage of my wedding is on display with the huge caption: BUSINESS TYCOON PATRICK BAXTER'S DAUGHTER DITCHED AT THE ALTAR. No... no, this isn't right.

Episode 49 – The Confessional Diary The attic smelled of dust and forgotten things. Ophelia’s fingers traced the spine of a leather-bound journal, its surface cool and smooth, tucked away in a cedar chest that had belonged to her grandmother. She hadn’t been looking for secrets; she’d been looking for old photo albums. But the moment she lifted the diary’s cover and saw the elegant, looping script, her own script, from years ago, a peculiar heat bloomed in her chest.

Dmitri gazed at the crusted bloodstains on the rotted wooden floor as Quinn heaved heavily, “I’m gonna puke.” “All of you, leave the room and search the area again,” Dmitri ordered and they gratefully left the room, no hesitation. As much as the smell and sight of this room were awful, he knew he could stand it. Like the other rooms, this study needs to be searched for anything and everything, no matter how disgusting and revolting it is. He made his way over to the large desk that sat on the other side of the room, ignoring the bloodstains and the mummified flesh that has dropped onto it, and rummaged through the yellowed papers of spells and ways to torture and drawings of her victims. Dmi

As he began to sift through the documents, his fingers stumbled upon a worn leather journal, its pages yellowed with age. He opened it and paused when he saw the familiar handwriting. It belonged to Carlotta, so why was it hidden among the newspapers and documents? As he began flipping through the pages, he discovered it was a diary from her youth, filled with memories of joy and laughter. Feeling like an intruder, he decided to put it back, but as he closed it, something slipped out from between its pages and fell to the floor.

Zoe’s pov I swim deeper into the underwater ruin. The water feels cold around me. Old stone walls cover in green algae. My flashlight beam cuts through the dark. I see a big crack in the floor. I try to swim over it. But my foot slips. I fall through the crack. Water rushes past me as I drop. I hit a deeper chamber. Bubbles rise from my mouth. I kick to swim up. Something grabs my ankle. It's slimy and cold. I look down. A thick tentacle wraps around my leg. It's green and covered in slick mucus.

The ink blurred as her hand shook. Tears slid down her cheeks, dripping onto the paper, smearing her words. She wiped her face quickly, breath hitching—but not in pain. In shame. Her fingers flipped back through old pages until she found a section dated almost three years ago. The header was messy, almost rushed: “Madam A’s Lessons: Power Never Blushes” FLASHBACK – AGE 14 Dominique sat in her grandmother’s parlor in Paris, her knees together, her silk gloves spotless despite the chocolate her nanny tried to sneak her. The wallpaper was crimson velvet. The tea set was edged in gold.