恐怖事件日记（恐怖日记怎么写）

恐怖事件日记

Sunday morning, I found myself in a strange and terrifying situation. It was Friday night, and my family had an unusual encounter that left everyone around me gasping for air.

I started by recalling the moment when my brother, who was otherwise pretty bright, finished his homework that day. "Wow," I said to myself, "he must have written it so fast he couldn't even read it!" But then, as I continued recounting the incident, a sense of dread crept in.

After dinner, my brother had finally been taken out of the house. The scene was raw and unsettling—his face pale from the shock, his eyes wide with fear. He looked at me through the window, a shadowy figure rising to his seat as if alive. His hands, though thick and strong, were glowing in this strange light.

My brother's mother stepped out of her room, her voice trembling but firm. "You didn't write your homework that night," she said, her voice steady despite the fear in my eyes. "You shouldn't have been so careless."

Then came my father, his face pale from the shock and grief he felt. He pulled a chair out of the living room and knocked on it, knocking lightly but firmly. "Are you really writing your homework?" he asked, his voice calm, even as I could feel him tense up beneath me.

My brother's mother returned, her eyes wide with tears. "I didn't write my homework that night." She said in a comforting voice, "It was all right. You had fun reading the book you were reading."

Then came my father again. He stepped out of his room and faced us carefully. "You did write your homework," he said, his voice steady but calm as I wrote in my journal. "Do that quickly, or you'll be caught off guard. Write it clearly. You've got to make sure it looks good."

As I worked, a knock came from the front door. I looked up and saw my father standing there with his back against the wall—his mouth open wide, teeth chinking. He stepped closer and pressed a deep breath into my chest.

"This isn't a good thing," he said to my brother. "You did write your homework that night." He continued writing as though nothing had happened, his eyes narrowing as I read his name in small letters on the right side of the paper.

As I finished, I walked out, my heart racing but my mind still pounding. My father stood behind me, looking around, and then stepped away quickly, leaving my journal in his hand. He turned and looked back at me, a look of defeat that made my stomach churn.

"You did write your homework," he said to my brother again. "Do that as though it's something important." His voice was calm, yet firm, and I couldn't help but laugh.

I picked up my journal, feeling the pressure in my hand. My brother sat on a park bench nearby, his face pale from the shock of the situation. He didn't speak, just moved gracefully back and forth between the chairs on either side, as though the world around him was crawling with something I couldn't understand.

"You did write your homework," he said again to my brother, holding up a folder with the date written in small letters. My heart pounded as if it were being pulled from my chest.

The sun began to set over the horizon, casting a warm glow on the ground below us. I looked down at the forest floor and saw a young boy, his face pale from the shock of all that had happened—except for me.

"You did write your homework," he said again to my brother, turning and looking back at me. "Do that as though it's something very important."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, I couldn't help but feel a surge of anger and fear in my gut. The boy was gone, gone from this world.

My heart raced, my mind spinning. But instead of giving up, I kept writing, trying to make sense of what had happened. For one night, I wasn't sure that I'd ever write homework again.

When the sun rose once more, the boy stood in front of me on the park bench, his face pale as ever. He looked at me with a determined expression and began to read my journal again, slowly this time, almost like it were written directly into his eyes.

"This isn't a good thing," he said, looking away as though nothing had happened—just another day of him sitting there writing.

I couldn't stop the pages from turning. My brother sat down, his face pale and his eyes wide with concern, and began reading mine.

"I did write my homework that night," he said, holding up a folder again. "That's all you need to read." His voice was calm but firm, even as I couldn't help but laugh.

The sun rose for just one more time, casting its golden glow over the forest floor. I couldn't stop writing. I couldn't stop paying attention. But it wasn't just me. My brother did too, his eyes wide and his face pale from all that had happened.

As the sun began to set again, leaving only the soft light of dawn behind us, I looked at my journal once more. My brother turned back to him with a look of concern on his face. "You should be happy now," he said to me softly. "You've done something important."

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving just the warmth of the morning sun in its wake, I couldn't help but feel something raw and unmanageable in my gut.