I write this with the admission that these words will be the last physical trace of my being. There are two candles burning in front of me, and I anticipate one to burn within the hour. The second may live on for a while, but I doubt it will last until sunrise.

I am unsure of where to begin, if to begin at all.  

Currently, I am alone. I am writing on a desk made of walnut, in my basement. The desk was a gift.

These words are meaningless.

To write it true (as I surely anticipate this paper to be used as evidence regarding the mystery that will surround my death), I am uncertain as to what exactly stands behind me. There are, however, blatant physical characteristics that could be indicative of its nature. I would first like to disclaim that my only perception of this creature, besides its engulfing aura, is that it is without a concrete shape. No, not human. And I would rather my observation be interpreted with grave intent when scrutinizing the cause of my death. I am also certain that it does not contain any physical attributes that suggest it to be related to any creature of terrestrial descent. Granted, these descriptions are merely based on a reflection I am gathering from the clock hanging above my desk, and this shallow candlelight provides me with hardly any assistance.

I am doing my best. I will not turn around for a better look.

Not until I am ready.

And judging by my circumstances, it will be impossible to explain the nature of this phantom any further once I turn to face it.

It has not moved upon its initial arrival—at least, not since I noticed it lingering under my doorway. I have no recollection of when I first became aware of its presence and am unsure as to when exactly it arrived. It hovers over the landing of the staircase behind me. It, if anything, is curious. It watches me stare back at it through the hanging glass but seems unperturbed by this.

Gooseflesh all over. I can feel them glide against this paper, against this desk.

I am not ready to die.

✷

It is no longer my choice.

✷

I write to borrow time. The first candle has gone, and the second is burning slightly quicker than I anticipated.

God. Please, God. I do not want to die.

It is late, and I do not know what will come of me if I doze.

And if I stand up to relieve myself? Or pick from the pantry? What will come of me then? Again, meaningless words. Time. I wish for more time. Speaking of which, I have noticed a peculiar thing: this clock has ceased to operate.

✷

It has only been what I am assuming is less than a quarter of an hour since my last entry, and it feels as if time itself has become stuck—stuck in this very room, in this air, stuck like me at this desk. This is a force beyond my understanding, that much is clear now. I am sure of this.

✷

I have left behind nothing. Upon inspection, what will remain are the clothes that hang in my closet, the fruit in their designated baskets, my rug, my bed, my book, and my pantry food. I anticipate joining the lifeless shortly.

In truth, I do not wish to be forgotten over time. I do not want my family or friends to move on from my existence, and I don’t want to become a sheer memory. I believe that is my worst fear.

✷

The clock’s hands remain stuck despite its subtle ticks that continue to rattle. I have lost all hope and no longer expect to see the light of dawn. And so, here it is. Goodbye to my mother, father, woman, brother. I love you all dearly and sincerely apologize for the abrupt nature of my death, which many of you may deem a tragedy. I hope you will all take solace in the idea that I am genuinely content with the fate I have been given, terrified as I may be. I do hope to see you in another form, if the known universe should will it. I will turn to face it now.

After all, I, too, am, if anything, curious.