Date: April 11, 2023
Location: Unknown (the walls no longer echo location pings)
I don't remember waking up today.
I don't remember sleeping either.
The pages were already open. Ink still wet.
Entry #27—already begun.
Not by my hand.
Reader… are you still there?
Are your hands shaking yet?
If they aren't—they should be.
Because what I'm about to write is not mine anymore.
I'm only translating.
I only see fragments now—images in the flame, bloodstains on relics, voices whispering behind limestone walls.
There is something else here.
And it's not Bhantaragya.
Not anymore.
He is becoming.
---
> "ॐ भ्रांतर्ग्य नमः पतञ्जलि-स्पर्शं वर्जयेत्।"
Om Bhrāntargya namah patañjali-sparśam varjayet.
The Spiral speaks when the spiral feeds.
DO NOT REPEAT THAT OUT LOUD.
Seriously.
Not even once.
It's carved above a team member's torn-open ribcage now.
He tried reading it.
Out loud.
For fun.
He died upside down, his lungs twisted like saffron threads, fingers broken in a prayer pose we never taught him.
---
Do you want to know more about Bhantaragya?
There's a way.
A dangerous one.
We found an encoded formula among the relics—written as a reverse chant combined with mudra gestures and a mirrored scribe.
They said it would reveal Bhantaragya's final words.
The last thing he wrote before he was sealed.
But it comes with a cost.
If you dare to try it—
You will see what we saw.
You may hear his voice in static.
You might not wake up.
> 🔸 Interactive Fragment 1:
Hold your breath.
Read the following backwards (but don't say it aloud):
ॐ। थिग्नुथ हनत्तान जिवर्त।
(Translation: "He lives in the breath you forget to take.")
---
Someone's knocking on the walls now.
But we are underground.
I watched Arjun dissolve into sand yesterday.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
He fell, gasped, whispered "I saw the spiral turn," and then vanished, leaving behind teeth and a watch ticking backwards.
I'm not sure I'm Advait anymore.
My fingers don't feel like mine.
The diary—this thing—is warm.
Breathing.
It opens before I touch it.
It whispers.
I tried to close it today.
It burned the table.
The ash turned into fingerprints.
They match mine.
But I didn't touch it.
---
If you're reading this, take a pencil.
Draw a spiral.
Just once.
Do you feel it?
You should stop.
Now scratch it out.
Did it move?
Stop. STOP.
---
We thought we stopped him.
We sealed the chambers, the chants, the symbols.
But the seal was broken the moment we translated.
Translation is replication.
Replication is permission.
And we've given too much permission.
---
There were 20 of us.
Then 11.
Then 3.
Now only I remain.
But the diary is growing heavier.
I think it counts as someone now.
It asks me questions in my dreams.
It asks you questions on these pages.
> 🔹 Interactive Fragment 2
(A line has appeared beneath the page. A question you cannot ignore.)
"Did you dream of a spiral before reading this?"
✅ Yes
❌ No
(If you answered Yes, Bhantaragya knows your name now.)
(If you answered No, Bhantaragya now dreams for you.)
---
Reader, I don't think this diary is meant to be finished.
I think it's meant to continue.
To write through us.
To survive us.
To lure you.
If you've read this far, the words have already latched to your vision.
Soon, you will see them.
The ones who followed Bhantaragya into the False Nirvana.
They'll appear in corners.
In mirrors.
In dreams.
You'll wake with ashes in your mouth.
You'll forget your name for half a minute.
You'll hear your friends say words you don't recognize.
That's the start.
---
I will try to write the last entry soon.
Before I'm not me.
But please—
Don't read Entry #28.
If this book reaches you, seal it again.
Bury it.
Bleed on it if you must.
Just don
't turn the page.
The diary no longer waits for permission.
---
[End of Entry #27]
(A faint note appears scrawled in the margin.)
> "If you are reading this, it's already behind you."
---