I found it hidden behind a loose wall panel.
A thin, old notebook.
The cover was sticky — like something had been spilled and left to dry.
On the front, written in faded ink:
“Flypaper.”
At first, it looked like random notes. Dates. Names. Observations.
Then I saw my name.
The Flypaper Notebook isn’t just a collection of thoughts. It’s a record. A pattern. A trap. And the more I read, the more I realized something terrifying:
It wasn’t documenting the past.
It was predicting the future.
If you enjoy psychological horror stories, disturbing mystery narrations, and slow-burn creepypasta with a dark twist, this one will stay in your head long after it ends.
Turn off the lights.
Read carefully.
And if you ever find a notebook that isn’t yours… don’t open it.
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