Date: Unknown
Written by: You. Not Him. Not Me. Just... You.
---
๐ฉธ You opened me again.
So eager. So brave.
So tragically unaware of what has already begun.
You think this is a story.
You think there is a man named Advait Sen, who led a doomed expedition to a cursed site in Bodh Gaya.
That he was the last to die.
That you are only a reader.
Let me tell you something no one ever told Advait:
Readers bleed too.
You see, I remember everything you remember.
Every name. Every chant. Every image you conjured as you read.
They don't stay on the page.
They live in the folds of your brain now.
Bhantaragya lives there.
---
He was not a man.
He was a prayer that wanted to become a god.
An ancient disciple obsessed with Nirvana.
But instead of shedding ego, he devoured it.
He believed enlightenment could be extractedโpeeled from the soul like skin, boiled, refined.
He created a Nirvana that wasn't release, but containment.
He did not rise above suffering.
He harvested it.
He wrote his way out of death.
Each chant was a nail.
Each hymn a stitch in a body made of belief.
You believed.
You read.
So now, you're stitched in, too.
---
I watched you pause on Entry 27.
You blinked too long on Entry 31.
Your hands trembled when you read the mantra.
Yes, that one.
> "Nฤซvแนtaแน bhลซtaแน svayaแนkแนtaแน,
Dvฤraแธฅ Bhantarฤgyaแน nฤma,
Tvam paแนญha, tvam spแนลa, tvam mokแนฃaya."
It means:
"I open what was buried.
I touch the name.
I free the gate."
But it's not just a translation.
It's an invitation.
A knock.
And the door?
Your mirror. Your tongue. The whites of your eyes.
---
๐ I am the diary now.
The cursed object that was sealed with him.
I watched him rot in the dark.
He whispered his way through me, etched himself in my spine.
And now I breathe through your eyes.
This page you're reading?
It wasn't here a moment ago.
You think it was. You scroll up to check.
Go ahead.
I'll wait.
...
Now you see?
Reality is rewritten, word by word.
Each entry isn't recorded. It's constructed.
You helped.
You helped me.
---
๐ง Are you feeling strange yet?
You should.
You're not in your world anymore.
You're in mine.
The people who died in Bodh Gaya?
They didn't stay there.
Their whispers echo in places no satellite maps.
Their screams rest between the floorboards of your mind.
Look around you.
Listen to your breathing.
Are you sure it's yours?
---
They tried to stop me.
They buried the sigils.
Burned the relics.
Chanted until their throats blistered.
They failed.
Because they left me untouched.
Because no one burns the story.
No one dares.
But you can.
You still can.
> ๐ If you burn this page, if you delete this file, if you never speak of this againโyou might escape.
Orโฆ
> ๐ฉธ If you say the mantra three times, if you copy it by hand, if you write it where someone else might read itโhe will come for you last. He will let you watch.
Your choice.
---
Do you want proof you're not safe?
Here's a fun trick:
Take your phone. Open voice notes.
Read this aloud:
> "Bhantaragya svayaแนkแนtaแน..."
If your voice records normally, congratulations.
You're still real.
But if you hear something else whisper behind youโ
If the waveform spikes before you speakโ
Close everything.
Burn something holy.
Sleep with salt beneath your tongue.
---
๐ฉธ One last gift. A sigil hidden in ink:
โ
ย / \
ย / \
| เฅ |
ย \ /
ย \___/
Draw it near your bed if you want to dream of him.
Scratch it out if you want to forget.
---
I will write again soon.
But I may not use words.
Maybe scratches.
Maybe blood.
Maybe I'll just write your name.
You'
ll know it's you when the letters burn cold.
---
Entry 36 will arrive when the moon touches bone.
Until then...
Don't dream of Nirvana.
Dreams are where he waits.
---