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June 4th, 2025 

I’m Alex. I’m 22. I’m a film student. Or I was, at least until a week ago, when everything sort of… stopped making sense.

I don’t really know who I’m writing this for. Maybe myself. Maybe no one. Maybe this just lives on the internet like everything else does now. I’m used to documenting things through a camera, not words, but right now I don’t trust myself to press record.

So this is me trying to stay upright.

I was living in Winter Park, Florida, going to Full Sail. Summer break was coming up. I had projects lined up, plans, normal stuff. My girlfriend was supposed to come visit me in Pennsylvania for a week before we drove back down together. We were talking about moving in somewhere halfway between everything. Something cheap. Something temporary. We joked about it a lot.

Five days before I was supposed to leave campus, security knocked on my door.

Campus security and Winter Park PD. I remember noticing how polite they were. Like they were trying not to startle a deer. They asked me to sit down. They used my full name. They told me she had been found in her apartment. They said the word “suicide” like it was a medical term instead of a sentence that shatters things.

I don’t remember crying. I remember nodding. I remember thinking they had the wrong person. I remember staring at a dent in my wall while they talked.

After that, everything happened so fast and not at all.

I packed. I left Florida. I came back to Mount Carmel, Pennsylvania. My parents tried to help in the way people do when they don’t know how. Food. Silence. Questions they didn’t ask out loud. I slept in my childhood bedroom and felt like a ghost wearing my own skin.

Grief is boring. No one tells you that. It’s not dramatic. It’s just heavy and constant, like a pressure system that never moves on the weather map. I stopped checking my phone. I stopped watching things. I stopped feeling like I was real.

A few weeks after I got home, I went out to get food. Hollywood Pizza. Same place it’s always been. Same counter. Same smell of grease and old soda. I sat there waiting for my order, staring at nothing, when I heard a group of kids talking behind me.

Centralia.

They were laughing about it. Telling stories. Monsters. Fog so thick you can’t see your hands. People who go in and don’t come out. One of them said you can see people you’ve lost. Another said that’s how it tricks you. Another swore his cousin’s friend went there once and came back “better.”

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t ask questions. I just listened.

I’ve heard the Centralia stories my whole life. Everyone around here has. Usually they’re treated like campfire nonsense. “The town that’s on fire.” Something locals roll their eyes at.

But sitting there, holding a greasy pizza box, something clicked in my head.

I’m a film student. I document things. That’s what I do. That’s what I know how to do. And right now I don’t know how to grieve without tearing myself apart. I don’t know how to sit still. I don’t know how to stop thinking about what I should have said, or what I missed, or whether I could have changed anything.

So maybe I don’t sit still.

Maybe I make something.

I don’t know if I believe the rumors. I really don’t. I don’t think Centralia is haunted. I don’t think it’s magic. I think grief makes people say stupid things because they want there to be meaning.

But Centralia is close. And it’s empty. And no one will stop me from going there.

I’m not looking for closure. I’m not looking for answers. I just need somewhere to put all of this noise in my head that isn’t my bedroom.

So this is the plan. I’m going to Centralia. I’m going to document it. The town. The rumors. The reality of it. If it’s nothing, then it’s nothing. If it’s something… I guess I’ll deal with that when it happens.

I’ll write in here. Probably videos too, if my hands stop shaking long enough to hold a camera.

I’m not scared.

I just don’t want to feel like this forever.

June 5th, 2025

I didn’t sleep last night. Or if I did, it doesn’t feel like it counts.

Writing this by hand feels different. Slower. Like my thoughts can’t outrun the pen. Maybe that’s the point. This feels like admitting something quietly so it doesn’t get offended and leave.

My room still smells the same. Dust, old books, laundry detergent my mom’s been buying since I was a kid. There’s a crack in the ceiling above my bed I forgot about. I used to stare at it when I was little and imagine it spreading while I slept, swallowing the room. Funny what sticks.

I keep thinking I hear my phone buzz. But it's not.

I found the old camcorder in the closet today. The one I used in high school before everything became phones and clouds. Battery still works. That feels important, like I didn’t plan it but something did. I haven’t turned it on yet. I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Seeing my own face, maybe. Or hearing my voice and realizing how different it sounds now.

Mom asked me at breakfast what I was doing today. I said “nothing,” which is technically true. She nodded like she didn’t believe me but didn’t want to push. Dad already left for work. Normal morning. Normal house. The world doesn’t look broken from the outside, which almost makes it worse.

I drove past the edge of town earlier. Not on purpose. I just kept going instead of turning around. The roads out here feel thinner somehow. Less real. Like if you go far enough, the rules loosen.

I didn’t go all the way to Centralia. Not yet. I could feel it pulling at me though, which sounds stupid written down, but it did. Like when you’re standing too close to a drop and your body reacts before your brain does.

Everyone says Centralia is empty. That it’s just smoke and cracks in the ground and warning signs no one listens to anymore. But if that’s true, why does everyone around here talk about it like it’s listening?

I keep thinking about what those kids said. About seeing people you’ve lost. I don’t know if I want that. I don’t know if I don’t.

There’s a part of me that keeps imagining her there, standing in the fog like she’s waiting for me to catch up. And I hate myself for how comforting that thought is.

If this were a movie, this is where the ominous music would start. This is where I’d yell at the character on screen not to go. But real life doesn’t cue you. It just lets you keep walking and pretends it didn’t notice.

I’m not writing this because I’m brave. I’m writing it because if I don’t, I think I’ll disappear into my own head. At least ink proves I was here for a minute.

Tomorrow I’m going to pack the car. Cameras. Notebook. Extra batteries. Water. I’ll tell my parents I’m working on a project. That part isn’t even a lie.

I don’t think Centralia fixes people. I don’t believe in miracles. But maybe it forces you to look at things you’ve been avoiding. Maybe that’s enough.

If something happens, if I chicken out, if this all turns into nothing, at least this notebook will know I tried.

And if I do see her.

I don’t know what I’ll do.

I’m going to stop writing now. My hand hurts. The house is too quiet. I swear I can hear breathing that isn’t mine, but that’s probably just the pipes. Or my imagination finally stretching its legs.

Tomorrow...