The mirror in the upstairs hallway is gone today. I don't remember taking it down. When I asked Mrs. Fletcher about it during her cleaning visit, she looked at me strangely and said there had never been a mirror there. But I've seen my reflection in it every day since I moved in. I found a bottle of pills on my nightstand that I don't remember getting. The label has my name on it, but I never went to that doctor. There's a week of my life missing according to my phone's calendar. Photos I don't remember taking. Text messages I don't recall sending. This is too much. I'm on the verge of losing my sanity and checking myself into an institution. The basement keeps calling to me.

I understand now. It all makes sense. The basement has always been the key. Not the main part where the furnace sits, but the sealed room behind the old bookcase. I've found this diary seventeen times now. Every time I forget, every time I start over. The cycle repeats endlessly. Tonight I'll break it once and for all. I can hear it scratching at the walls again. I'm going down to the hidden room with the old tools I found. If someone finds this, know that I tried to end it. Don't come looking for me. Just burn this house to the ground.

Explored more of the house today. First place I wanted to check out was the attic. It was filled with dust-covered furniture and boxes. Found a collection of old photographs in one of them, probably the previous owners. Something unsettling about them. Well, that's what you get for digging into these places. I'm still thinking about the basement, but will probably hold that off for now. Still, I can't shake this sense of déjà vu that's been following me since I moved in.

Moving into the house on feels like a fresh start. The house is larger than I expected, and at this price, it seemed too good to pass up. The real estate agent was oddly eager to close the deal quickly. There's an unusual chill in certain rooms, especially near the basement door. The previous owners left without taking most of their belongings, which the agent said I could keep or discard. Some of their taste in décor is rather outdated. I've been having vivid dreams since sleeping here. Probably just the stress of moving and starting a new job.

Found another diary in the basement storage room today. The handwriting is identical to mine. The entries match what I've been writing, word for word, but they're dated 1977. This can't be possible. There's a photograph tucked in the final pages showing a family standing in front of this house. I'm in it, looking exactly as I do now. But the photo is clearly decades old. The paper is yellowed, the edges frayed. I've never owned clothes like those. I thought this was my first time in this town. Was I here before? Have I forgotten my own past?

Woke up this morning in the kitchen. No memory of going downstairs during the night. The faucet was running and there was a knife on the counter. Splashes on the floor. I must have sleepwalked down for a midnight snack. I've been so exhausted lately, falling asleep in one place and waking in another. Called Dr. Morris about it, and he suggested it might be stress or a sleep disorder. The constant headaches aren't helping either. Sometimes it's hard to focus, like my thoughts are swimming through fog.

Something's wrong with this house. The wallpaper in my bedroom has changed overnight. I'm certain it was blue stripes when I went to sleep, but now it's a floral pattern. When I mentioned it to the handyman who came to fix the rattling pipes, he said it's always been floral, at least since he's been servicing the house for the past decade. Am I losing my mind? First the kitchen, and now this? I found scratches on the inside of my bedroom door this morning. They look like they were made by fingernails. I don't remember doing that. The basement door keeps opening on its own.