Welcome to Penny’s Diary, a contemporary urban-fantasy serial. Read new diary entries every Thursday. Supporting readers can also access a weekly Writer’s Commentary, along with immersive audio and eBook editions, after each entry.
New to Penny’s story? Begin at the very first entry by clicking the button below and step into the moments where everything started to change.
Alright, here’s the deal—I had some time to kill before Teddy showed up, so I grabbed a bag of peanut butter M&Ms and a handful of colorful Post-it Notes. It was highlighter time. I was ready to mark up those diaries like Indiana Jones uncovering ancient secrets.
Part of me still wasn’t sure I wanted to poke that particular bear again after last time, but hey—curiosity’s undefeated.
But whoa, I wasn’t prepared for the madness that followed. With each entry I read, it was like stepping into a time machine—reliving a past I never knew existed. Boom! Memories crashed over me, vivid and raw, like someone had hit play on scenes from another life. It was a full-on virtual-reality trip inside my own head.
And just when I thought I’d adjusted, the intensity dialed up again. Those memory flashes? They were like concentrated lightning bolts—each one sparking emotions so strong they practically knocked me sideways. My brain was in overdrive, my heart racing like I’d just sprinted a marathon.
It was a lot to take in. Feeling these alien memories—the good, the bad, and the seriously terrifying—was exhausting. Then came the kicker: the pounding migraine. That familiar, throbbing I-messed-with-magic-again kind of headache.
Still, no backing out now. Teddy was about to dive headfirst into this mystery with me, and I wasn’t about to flake. Migraine or not, we were in this together. Game on.
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Partners in Chaos
Teddy showed up right on time—but not before Gramps cornered him to gush about his latest restaurant plans. He’s turning the Meridian into a full-on movie-themed restaurant—a total memorabilia fest, with a few surprises he’s keeping up his sleeve. And to top it off, Teddy was already running on low battery thanks to Kelly (aka Squirt) unleashing a full glitter explosion this morning. That kid is chaos in a ponytail, and I love her for it.
Poor Teddy had to endure both disasters—the Squirt Sparkle Apocalypse and the Gramps Hype Tour—before we finally escaped to my room, the headquarters of Operation Diary Investigation.
I handed him the mysterious letter I’d found in the basement and gave him the rundown. His face went from surprised to uneasy when he hit the part warning not to involve family. Yeah, that line freaked me out too, but I brushed it off, promising him we were safe. No way was I dragging my best friend into danger. Still, that little twist of dread stayed lodged in the back of my mind.
Once Teddy relaxed, his attention zeroed in on the diaries. He listened while I told him how I’d found them—and about the memory surge that followed. He called it a “memory blast,” which honestly nailed it. I couldn’t have come up with anything better.
Then his brain went full conspiracy-mode, mapping connections faster than I could process them. That’s just how he operates—logic first, panic later. Watching him analyze every clue, I realized he was the perfect partner for this madness. Whatever these diaries are hiding, we’re cracking it open together.
Paper Cuts and Paradoxes
Teddy went full-on detective mode, bombarding me with questions about the memory blasts. I tried my best to explain how the memories hit me like a tidal wave—crystal clear at first, then fading into a hazy dream.
He had this brilliant idea—what if the memory blast wasn’t just a me thing? So he gave it a shot, placing his hand on a diary page while we both held our breath. Nothing. Figures. My superpower, apparently.
Feeling a bit deflated, I handed him one of the diaries I’d marked with a Post-it note this morning—the last one in the stack, the 2020 diary that ends in November. He flipped to the final entry and read it aloud:
“Ugh, Mom’s making me go to Clearwater early because her friend’s having some fancy dinner thing. So unfair. I left the letter, so I guess this is it. Goodbye until my memories come back. Wish me luck—seriously.”
The blast I’d gotten from that entry this morning had already faded, but hearing Teddy read it out loud hit different. Sharper. Younger me had been the genius behind the letter. She knew what was coming and sent a message to her future self before her memories got wiped.
We dove back into the diaries. Teddy scanned like a pro while I took a break from the brain zaps—there was no way I could face any more memory blasts after this morning’s session. Entry after entry, a pattern formed. Something weird always happened after a visit to The Clearwater Institute in Halifax—for my monthly transfusions and “observation weekends.” They say it’s to keep my blood stable—whatever that means. I stopped asking a long time ago.
Each time, my memories of the diaries were wiped. Total blank slate. But little me had found a loophole—leaving that letter to protect what mattered.
That letter didn’t stay where younger me said she left it in 2020. According to the diary, she put it on her desk—plain as day—so she’d find it when she got home from Clearwater.
But she didn’t.
Somehow, it ended up buried in a dusty box of Christmas cards in the basement. Maybe it slid behind something. Maybe it got scooped up and packed away. But it didn’t stay put.
Accidents happen, right?
At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.
And then Teddy did the thing he always does—spot the obvious detail I completely missed.
He held up the letter, the envelope, and one of the diaries side-by-side.
“Penny… look at the paper.”
He was right.
The letter wasn’t just old.
The envelope wasn’t just old.
They were both made from the same paper—same beige tint, same texture, same tiny grain—as the diary pages.
Not similar.
Exact.
The envelope even had these tiny uneven folds along the edges, like younger me had trimmed and taped it together by hand.
It hit me all at once: she’d torn a page out to type the letter… and torn another couple to fold into a makeshift envelope, then sealed it with tape.
My stomach dropped.
Younger me didn’t just write a warning.
She crafted it—letter and envelope—from her own diary.
Left it on her desk.
Hoping she would find it after Clearwater scrambled everything again.
And somehow, it still didn’t stay put.
Whether someone moved it—or something else did—that letter didn’t end up where she meant it to be.
Red Eye Revelations
Teddy frowned, tapping the page like it had just insulted him.
“Hey… this red stamp thing, like on the letter.”
I leaned in. There it was—the same red eye, stamped at the bottom like some kind of secret signature.
And it wasn’t a one-off.
It showed up on several entries, all the ones right before Clearwater trips—like younger me was clinging to it. Like it was an anchor.
Was it important?
Was it a symbol?
Or was younger me just stress-stamping her feelings into the universe?
No clue.
But she used it a lot. Especially when things got confusing or scary.
So yeah… it meant something to her.
Which means it probably means something to me too. I just have zero memory of ever owning this stamp.
Then came the bombshell.
The memories weren’t just erased—they were changed. Time itself had been twisted. Teddy called it “reality shifts,” which, yeah, nailed the vibe.
He even said it was like “wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff,” because obviously he couldn’t resist a Doctor Who reference.
Annoyingly? Pretty accurate.
If that doesn’t scream nightmare fuel, I don’t know what does.
And it left me with one massive, unsettling question: why was younger me writing these diaries at all?
Was it to keep track of whatever happened to me during those Clearwater visits?
To protect herself… or me?
Or was there some other purpose we haven’t cracked yet?
Fine-Print Freakout Mode
Teddy, being the problem-solver that he is, asked—again—if there was any way I could ditch the monthly Clearwater Institute observations. I wish. But nope. Mom signed me up for their research program when I was a kid with a blood condition, and now I’m stuck in it until I turn eighteen. No escape route for this gal. Guess that’s what happens when your life comes with fine print.
Oh, and here’s the kicker—they dangled a college scholarship in front of me like a carrot on a stick. Basically, “Hey, Penny, come hang out with us at Clearwater, and we’ll get you through college without breaking your piggy bank.” Sneaky, right? I sounded like a total Clearwater ambassador, regurgitating their whole spiel, just like Mom.
But hey, there’s a legit reason behind all this madness. I’ve got something called Erythrosyndrome Disorder—ESD for short. Basically, my blood cells don’t last as long as they should, so once a month I get a transfusion to top things up. It sounds dramatic, but it’s just part of my routine now.
The Clearwater Institute is researching the condition, using guinea pigs like me to figure it all out.
Missing Pages and Pizza Breaks
As Teddy kept scanning through the diaries, he discovered a bunch of pages were missing—ripped right out. He figured my younger self used those pages to type the letter and make the envelope she left for her future self, especially since the paper matched. But here’s what kept me scratching my head—there were a lot of pages missing.
Why did she make a brand-new letter and envelope every month?
Why not just reuse the same one?
Ripping out pages like she was running a full-time scrapbooking operation didn’t make sense. Maybe she felt like she had to keep updating the message. Or maybe she didn’t trust the older ones.
Or were those missing pages for something else entirely?
But if the 2020 letter is anything to go by… even leaving it on her desk didn’t guarantee it would stay there.
It’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and I’m not about to let it go unsolved.
All this intense thinking—and the morning migraine that still wouldn’t let go—made my head feel like it was about to explode. I needed a break, and Teddy knew exactly what to do. Pizza delivery to the rescue! While he handled the food, I hunted for some pain meds and prayed they’d kick in before my brain turned into a ticking time bomb.
The Nameless Bookstore Mystery
You won’t believe the weirdness that went down while we were munching on mushroom-and-bacon pizza. Seriously—total Netflix plot twist.
I pointed out the evasive name on the diaries—The London Antiquarian. It’s embossed on the leather, right there. Teddy gave me his classic “What name?” look and said he hadn’t noticed anything. Ugh. Boys and their selective vision.
I tapped the cover like a detective presenting Exhibit A, but every time he looked, the name might as well have vanished. Then we checked the inside pages—and he couldn’t see the address stamp either. Twilight Zone vibes. I’d mention The London Antiquarian, and fifteen seconds later he’d go, “What name again?” He’d look at the address, swear the words were scribbled out, and—boom—our whole conversation just… evaporated.
Hello, migraine. It throbbed like it wanted attention too, because apparently my brain loves adding side quests at the worst possible times. And don’t get me wrong, I adore Teddy to the moon and back, but the goldfish-memory thing was not helping my sanity. I wanted to shake him and yell, Remember our nameless bookstore mystery?!
I kept it together. It’s not his fault—this was some next-level, mind-bending nonsense, and I couldn’t wrap my head around why he couldn’t see what was right in front of his face.
At this point I started wondering if someone sprinkled magical amnesia dust over us. The whole situation felt like a puzzle with missing pieces, and I was the detective stuck building the edges first. Maybe we should call ourselves The Memory Vanishers. Or The Amnesiac Detectives. Catchy, right?
Whatever it is, I’m not letting go. I’m going to dig deeper into The London Antiquarian and the memory hijinks until something cracks.
Bring it on.
Sunday, January 11, 2026
Autocorrect vs. The Invisible Bookstore
Ugh. Yesterday’s migraine finally loosened its grip, but my brain clearly missed the memo. The never-ending frustration that is The London Antiquarian debacle with Teddy has officially taken its place. Seriously—this mystery is playing hide-and-seek with an invisible ghost.
So I popped some more pain meds, hoping to stay ahead of whatever new migraine my life was trying to schedule. But of course, the universe had other plans. Now I was wrestling with this ridiculous name issue. It’s just a name! Why is it making itself scarce like a missing sock?
And don’t even get me started on my phone’s autocorrect. Every time I tried typing that darn name to text Teddy, it was like my phone was on strike. “Sorry, Penny, no can do. The name’s too secret for me to type!”
To add insult to injury, I thought I could be all high-tech and record a video of myself saying the name out loud. You know, just to show Teddy I wasn’t making things up. But when I played the video back, it was a whole lot of nothing. Zilch. Nada. Like the name had decided to do a vanishing act on camera.
And Siri? Oh, she’s a real MVP. Not. I asked her to help me out, but it was like I was speaking an alien language. “Hey, Siri, can you say ‘The London Antiquarian’ for me?” Nope. Not a single peep. She totally ghosted me.
At this point, I’m starting to think this mysterious name has magical powers of its own—like it’s putting an invisibility cloak on itself just for kicks. But let me tell you, The London Antiquarian—if you think you can outsmart Penny Summers, you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll uncover your secrets one way or another. Just you wait.
Promises in the Sun
Gramps rescued me from the bookstore frustration with a walk in Meridia Park. I figured a little fresh air might clear my head, but Teddy’s question from yesterday kept echoing—why couldn’t I ditch the Clearwater observations? The more I thought about it, the more it bugged me.
Now, you’d think January would be all about snow and freezing your butt off, but Meridia Falls never got that memo. It decided to pull a “surprise, it’s summer!” move instead. The weather couldn’t make up its mind, and today it felt more like a mid-July heatwave. T-shirts were the dress code, and everyone was probably side-eyeing the sky, wondering what kind of weird reputation this town was trying to live up to. Gramps, however, was part of the long-sleeve generation, even when summer hit.
As we strolled through the park, I tried to lighten the mood with some casual chit-chat. But deep down, I had bigger fish to fry. I needed answers about those so-called observations at The Clearwater Institute.
“Why do I have to stay at Clearwater after the transfusions?” I finally asked, trying to sound calm instead of frustrated. “Why can’t they just do it and let me come home?”
He gave me that gentle, knowing look—the one that says you already know the answer, kiddo. “You know why, Penny. The overnight stay’s part of keeping you safe. They have to make sure your body adjusts properly after the transfusions. And those extra tests—they help the doctors learn more about ESD. What they find could help other kids who’ve got it a lot worse than you.”
I kicked at a loose pebble on the path, pretending to think it over. It wasn’t that I didn’t get it—it just didn’t feel right anymore. But the worry in his eyes stopped me cold. His grip on my hand tightened, like he was afraid I might slip away. I suddenly realized how much he still worried about me—how much this whole Clearwater thing scared him too. I couldn’t stand to see him like that, so I wrapped my arm around him and gave him a hug. “You won’t lose me, Gramps. I promise.”
We didn’t say much after that. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, but strangely comforting. We’ve both lost enough already. No need to add more. Sometimes, a hug and a promise are all you need to get through the day.
Butter Tarts and Family Legends
We couldn’t resist the temptation of the Main Street bakery—probably for the last time, judging by the giant “coming soon” poster in the window. They’re merging with the café next door to create some new place, by the looks of it. So we grabbed a couple of butter tarts and headed straight for the promenade. You just can’t beat those sea views stretching across South Bay. It’s like a postcard moment every single time.
As we munched on our treats, I spilled the tea to Gramps about Mom’s obsession with living in this picture-perfect bay. I mean, come on—who wouldn’t want to wake up to that view every morning? According to Gramps, Mom’s been dreaming about it ever since Dad first brought her here.
And where does she want to live? On the South Bay Peninsula, of course—because it glistens like a diamond across the causeway.
Gramps nodded, probably replaying all of Mom’s dreamy rants over the years. He said it started the day Dad introduced her to him. Apparently, Mom fell in love with the Meridian too—the old Art Deco building right at the end of Main Street.
I turned to look at it, and yeah, it still looks like a legit movie theater from the outside. But behind those walls? Total chaos. Gramps is turning it into a movie-themed restaurant. Mom was livid when she found out. She couldn’t believe he’d turn the place she loved into a restaurant.
But you know Gramps—he’s always got that twinkle in his eye, like he knows something the rest of us don’t. I swear, he finds joy in getting under Mom’s skin, and he’s not even sorry about it. That’s just Gramps for you—always stirring up a little mischief. And honestly? I love him for it.
Silent Movies and Midnight Thoughts
After feasting on the ultimate comfort food—Gramps’s famous poutine—we decided to make it a double whammy with a cozy movie night. Now, let me tell you, Gramps is all about those sappy, sweeping romantic dramas. Me? Not so much. I mean, fairy-tale love is cute and all, but it’s hard to buy into that stuff when my own life’s a roller coaster of missing memories, secret experiments, and a name I can’t even freaking say out loud.
But hey, I’m all about seeing Gramps happy, so I flopped down next to him on the couch, surrounded by a mountain of candy. Seriously, we had enough sweets to give Willy Wonka a run for his money. We picked City Lights, one of his all-time favorite silent movies.
There’s something magical about those old films—no dialogue, just emotions painted through gestures and expressions. It’s like a blank canvas for my brain to wander while Gramps basks in nostalgia. And tonight, that’s exactly what I need—a quiet moment to get lost in my own thoughts, even if they circle right back to that impossible name and all the weirdness tangled up in my life.
Monday, January 12, 2026
Same Dream, New Light
There it was again—the recurring dream that refuses to leave me alone. I found myself back in that spooky cave, like a broken record. But this time there was something new—another shaft of light in the distance. Of course, it didn’t last long—an ear-piercing scream sent me rocketing out of dreamland and back into the real world.
The dream and its ghostly scream haunted me all morning. Homeroom with Mr. Gale, then Math with Mr. Matheson—nothing like algebra to make your soul consider a career change. Media Studies with Mr. Lefevre gave me a breather; he said “visual storytelling” three times, and I pretended I wasn’t thinking about diaries as props in my own horror short.
At lunch, I tried to tell Teddy about The London Antiquarian again. He didn’t remember the name—but he remembered that I was upset. That’s something, I guess. It’s like his brain files the emotion but deletes the words. Totally not weird at all.
I asked if he was free tonight to do some more research, but nope—print shop chaos strikes again. More urgent orders, and it looks like it’ll keep him swamped until Friday. So I told him we’d try again Saturday, another proper deep-dive diary session. Maybe by then I’ll have a few more clues… or at least fewer headaches.
Tuesday, January 13, 2026
Karate Boy and Chaos 101
My morning was a blink-and-you-miss-it whirlwind of Gym and History—and thank the universe there were no run-ins with the Candy Gang. But Teddy had his own personal nemesis to contend with: the infamous Rich “The Dick” Cavanagh. Seriously, that guy’s a piece of work. Since Teddy’s family moved to town, Cavanagh’s had it out for him. Probably got all threatened by Teddy’s martial arts skills spreading like wildfire. But Teddy, being the cool dude he is, believes in using his talents to protect, not to attack.
I have to hand it to Teddy—the way he dodged and deflected Cavanagh’s attack back in junior high was like watching a ninja in action. It was epic. Things only got messy when a teacher accidentally got caught in the crossfire, thanks to Cavanagh’s not-so-precise aim. Oops. Tough luck for Cavanagh—he got himself suspended and became tabloid fodder thanks to his famous actress mom.
Now here’s the crazy twist: if it weren’t for Cavanagh, me and Teddy might never have become friends. Yep. That day Cavanagh went after Teddy, I happened to be nearby and got totally drawn in. Teddy was wearing the same Nintendo T-shirt my dad used to rock. Fate shoved us together and—bam—friendship.
Cavanagh hasn’t gotten over it. He can’t mess with Teddy directly, so he settles for name-calling and taunting. “Karate Boy Chicken,” like he thinks he’s funny. Peanut-brain energy.
After lunch, Media Studies with Mr. Lefevre: story arcs, beats, foreshadowing. I took notes like I wasn’t starring in my own creepy B-plot.
Wednesday, January 14, 2026
Pop Quizzes and Peanut-Brain Energy
Science with Mr. Keeler kicked off the day with a pop quiz—because of course it did. Mitochondria, cell transport, osmosis… honestly, my brain floated away somewhere around question three. After that, Drama with Miss Rivers—set building and cue plotting—then Math with Mr. Matheson and History with Mr. Jefferson to land the plane.
Cafeteria highlight reel: Rich Cavanagh was at it again, cranking up the taunts. He messed with the printed menu—crossed out “chicken Alfredo pasta” and scribbled “Karate Boy chicken Alfredo pasta,” like the comedic genius he thinks he is. Teddy just grinned and ordered it loudly, which turned Cavanagh into the punchline. The only problem? I can’t stand Alfredo. Teddy can keep his “Karate Boy Chicken”—I’ll stick with a chicken wrap and a well-deserved glare in Cavanagh’s direction.
Thursday, January 15, 2026
Masks, Echoes, and Sleepless Nights
English with Miss Rivers gave us a discussion prompt about identity and the masks we wear. I didn’t raise my hand. Media Studies was B-roll and cutaways. Gym tried to murder me with laps. Drama let me hide in the wings and paint flats—the closest thing to peace I’ve had all week.
After dinner, I tried one more search for the bookstore. I whispered the name into my phone’s mic—playback was blank. I wrote it in my notebook, knowing anyone else would just see a blur or a scribble, but to me the letters stayed clear. Cool party trick.
I crashed for a power nap and dreamed of the cave again. That shaft of light in the distance pulled me in, and just when I got close—bang—that same ear-piercing scream jolted me awake.
Friday, January 16, 2026
Battery-Saver Mode
School felt like a rerun. French, History, Science, Math—I did the motions and let my brain save battery. Candy’s hair, now sporting pink highlights, was her feeble attempt to cover up the evidence of the milkshake incident. Every time she turned her head, I saw that streak of justice shining through.
Commerce, Cocoa, and Crows
After the final bell, I stopped by Scoop and Swirl on Main Street for a hot chocolate— they’re cashing in on warm drinks while the café’s under renovation and teaming up with the bakery. Kind of goes against their ice-cream-parlor ethos, but hey, who am I to argue with commerce? Especially when they dole out extra whipped cream.
The place was packed, so I took my drink to go and stepped out into the street. The air had that crisp, icy bite that makes you feel alive and half-frozen at the same time—a far cry from the mini heatwave we had on Sunday.
I leaned against the lamppost outside, balancing my cup on top of the trash can while I pulled my gloves back on. That’s when I noticed it—a crow perched on the awning across the street, watching me. I swear, I’ve been seeing crows everywhere lately. Maybe it’s the same one. Or maybe they’re multiplying just to mess with me.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned it.
The crow tilted its head, blinked once, and then swooped straight toward me. Before I could react, it snatched my cup right off the can and took off down the side alley.
“Hey! That’s my hot chocolate!” I yelled, because apparently that’s who I am now—someone arguing with wildlife.
I darted after it, my boots sliding on the icy sidewalk as I turned into the alley. The bird landed a few yards ahead, cup still in its claws, staring at me like it was waiting for me to follow.
Then I heard voices.
Candy and Cavanagh.
They were walking right past the ice-cream parlor. They stopped right at the entrance to the alley—I froze, pressing myself against the wall, heart pounding.
“Thought she’d be in here,” Candy said, her voice smug and syrupy. “I could’ve sworn I saw her head into Scoops.”
Cavanagh snorted, muttering something about wasting time in the clothing shop—which I can only imagine earned him one of those snarky glares from his girlfriend. Then he added, “If I can’t get at Karate Boy, I can at least get at his pet.”
Candy sniggered. “Don’t worry. Penny Dreadful’s got it coming.”
My breath caught in my throat. They didn’t even glance down the alley as they strolled past, laughing like villains in some low-budget teen drama.
The crow let out a harsh caw that echoed off the walls, then dropped my cup in the snow and flew off into the dusk, wings flashing against the gray sky.
I waited until their voices faded before stepping out again, picking up the now-empty cup. “Okay,” I whispered, “you win, bird.”
Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it was luck. But it’s starting to feel like that crow’s keeping tabs on me. And honestly? I’m not sure if that’s comforting—or terrifying.
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DB
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