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.
I didn’t sleep much last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that crow swooping through the alley and hearing Candy’s voice echoing in my head. Penny Dreadful’s got it coming. Cute, right? That nickname’s been her thing for, like, forever—vintage Candy, all glitter and venom. Nothing like a good old-fashioned threat to spice up your Friday evening. Still, I’m not giving her or Cavanagh the satisfaction of getting in my head. If they want to play games, fine—I’ve got bigger mysteries to solve.
You won’t believe the latest update on the whole Antiquarian mystery. I had a brainwave—what if I could bring Teddy in on The London Antiquarian without his bookstore amnesia kicking in?
Teddy already looked wired when he showed up—he’d been looking after Kelly. Squirt’s got the sniffles, and when she’s sick she signs pure boss energy. We camped out in my room, snacks on standby, and I spilled all the tea about “the bookstore.” That’s my new code name for it—safer that way. Teddy was totally into it, fascinated by his inability to remember it and my inability to type or record it. Eureka—the code name worked. No amnesia.
To prove I wasn’t just losing my marbles, I even tried searching it on his phone. Same deal—instant invisibility. The name’s like it has its own digital force field, bouncing off every search and keystroke.
I slipped up once and actually said The London Antiquarian instead of “bookstore.” Big mistake. The moment it left my mouth, Teddy blinked like he’d just forgotten what we were talking about. Reset. Back to square one. Ugh.
Naturally, Teddy being the overachieving detective he is, decided we needed to test it again on neutral ground. So we hopped on Gramps’s computer (thanks, Gramps) and recreated my Google Maps “walk” through Cecil Court—me narrating, him watching the screen.
And guess what? Still nothing. The bookstore’s playing world-champion hide-and-seek, and it’s definitely winning.
Here’s the weirdest part: I can type the name on Gramps’s PC and Mom’s laptop, no problem. But on our phones? Nope. It’s like trying to get a cat to play fetch—technically possible, but good luck with that.
What even is this? Some weird digital curse? A magical firewall? Maybe The London Antiquarian doesn’t want to be found. But too bad for it—me and Teddy? We don’t give up that easily.
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Detective Fuel and Digital Curses
I rustled us up some dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup, the classic “detective fuel.” Teddy says I burn toast like it’s a superpower, but this time I totally nailed it. After a round of our usual “my nemesis is worse than yours” banter, Teddy had an idea: we should do a pinpoint search for the bookstore in the diaries. Maybe it had come up before. Genius move.
At first, Teddy took the lead—reading through the entries so I could skip the migraine-inducing memory blasts. But then we realized the obvious flaw: he’d probably skim right over the bookstore name and never even know it. So I took over, and he turned his back on the diaries—and me—to keep a safe distance from any chance of another bookstore amnesia attack.
I spread the diaries across my bed, flipping through the pages like an archaeologist hunting for lost treasure. Even skimming was risky—the memory blasts still hit, and the headaches always followed close behind. I could already feel another migraine forming, but I wasn’t backing down.
To keep things under control, I started reading out loud—carefully swapping in “the bookstore” whenever the real name appeared. My voice wobbled a few times, and I could tell Teddy wanted to look, but he didn’t. He just sat on the edge of my desk chair, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the wall like it might hold the answers.
That’s when I found it—my sassy younger self facing the same exasperating situation. She’d tried to crack the case by asking a teacher for help. But guess what? All they saw was a scribbled-out name on a piece of paper. Like, what even is that?
The teacher freaked out, handed her detention like it was Halloween candy—and then the whole punishment vanished. Memory wiped. Blank slate. My younger self was left holding a detention slip nobody remembered giving her.
Total Twilight Zone moment—a world where only she could remember The London Antiquarian while everyone else was stuck in a fog of forgetfulness. Seriously, what kind of cosmic prank is that?
Younger me must’ve been furious, but she rolled with it. Guess she had no choice. And if rolling with it worked for her, maybe that’s my move too.
Unfortunately, my brain had other plans for the rest of the night’s research session. The migraine from hell set up camp behind my eyes, and I waved the white flag. We called it a night, ditched the diary hunt, and collapsed in front of Netflix.
Still, every few minutes, my eyes drifted toward the air vent where the diaries were hidden. What other secrets were waiting inside those pages?
My migraine groaned at the thought.
Sunday, January 18, 2026
Dreams, Drama, and Déjà Vu
I’m still a little fried from last night’s diary deep-dive. Between the headaches and the whole bookstore mind-bender, I figured I’d earned a normal night’s sleep. Instead? My brain gave me this.
Hold on to your popcorn, because I had the dream of a lifetime last night! Move over, cave nightmares—there’s a new contender in town. I blame it all on City Lights last Sunday; that movie’s got some serious mojo.
So, picture this: I’m walking through a mystical forest, sunlight flickering through the trees, mist curling around everything like a fog machine on overdrive. Total fairytale vibes. But what really got me was the guy beside me.
I know, I know—“cute” isn’t my go-to word, but trust me, it fits. His eyes were so bright they almost glowed, and his hair caught the light like one of those shampoo commercials I secretly love to hate. And when he looked at me, it felt like he could see right into me—straight to my soul. Weird, right?
I tried to ask him who he was, what this dream even meant, but he just lifted a finger to his lips and smiled—mysterious, calm, like he knew something I didn’t. And that little shushing move? Yeah, dangerously captivating.
Then I woke up—heart racing, breathless, and completely freaked out by how real it felt. How can I miss someone I’ve never even met? It’s messing with my head, and I can’t shake it. My life’s officially weirder than a Netflix pilot.
Route-Detour Chaos
After that dream, my brain was basically doing cartwheels, so I grabbed my board and went out for a quick skate to clear my head. Cold air, empty streets, the usual therapy.
Cutting through Downtown, I had to detour because the whole grassy area beside the Town Hall was lined with big white maintenance tents. A whole row of them—like Meridia Falls suddenly decided to host a construction-themed camping trip.
The walkway was blocked off too, so I hopped off my board and looped around the back path instead. Annoying, but whatever. I just kept going.
Monday, January 19, 2026
Drama Queens and Backstage Dreams
Back in the crazy land of Drama class today, and honestly? I was kind of pumped to dive back into the Spellbound Harmony chaos. Anything to get a break from all that diary mayhem for a while.
Still—did no one realize this musical would’ve been perfect for Halloween? Witches, dragons, local legends—it’s spooky-season gold. But nope. Let’s just toss it into the middle of summer—or whatever passes for summer around here. Totally logical, right?
Today’s agenda: a crash course for us tech nerds—the unsung heroes who actually make the magic happen. We learned everything from handling props (that probably have more drama than the actors) to mastering scene changes like ninjas in the dark.
And brace yourself for the big reveal: the Art class dream team. Guess who’s on set design and props duty? Ding, ding—Ellie Horton. The mayor’s daughter. Certified Candy Gang member, armed with that perfect red hair that somehow always looks like it’s been professionally blow-dried by angels. Because apparently, the universe is allergic to letting me have a Candy-free day.
So yeah, looks like I’ll be spending the next few weeks weaving backstage magic while dodging Ellie’s aura of manufactured perfection. An obstacle course of drama, art, and way too much glitter. The things I do for the love of theater, huh?
Tuesday, January 20, 2026
Letters, Lies, and Lightbulb Moments
Teddy swung by after dinner, having conquered a few errands for his folks. Thankfully, Mom was out, so we dodged the whole awkward “boys in the bedroom” conversation—because seriously, she knows me and Teddy are just friends.
We dove straight back into the mind-bending mystery of the bookstore name. Too bad my younger self wasn’t big on details. Those early diary entries? Total scribbles with attitude. It wasn’t until the third diary—from 2018—that she even mentioned the bookstore problem, let alone started investigating it herself.
That’s when we hatched a theory: whatever shady force was tampering with reality and scrambling my memories was also messing with digital tech. “Digital magic,” Teddy called it—and honestly, it fits a little too well.
Then it hit me like a lightning bolt: did younger me actually start leaving a letter for her future self every single month? Because, seriously, how else did she get her real memories back after that first mindwipe-and-reality-makeover?
Unless… she wasn’t doing it alone.
Somebody must’ve been helping her—someone who knew more about the web of weirdness she was stuck in. And who better for that job than Gramps?
But that thought didn’t sit right. Gramps is my hero, my anchor. But what if he’d been part of whatever this is? I almost asked him, but Teddy—ever the buzzkill—reminded me of that giant red-flag warning in the diary letter: Don’t involve family. A flashing neon sign for “danger ahead.”
And another thing: that letter wasn’t written in crayon or sparkly gel pens. It was typed. Old-school. Detective-movie, click-clack typewriter typed. Which means younger me wasn’t just panicking—she was planning. She wanted the letter to stand out, to survive whatever weird magic or brain-scramble happens around Clearwater.
If younger me was prepping that same letter setup before every monthly trip… maybe I should start thinking about it too. End-of-month observation’s coming up fast, and if these memory resets are still a thing… yeah. Better safe than scrambled. And honestly? Having Teddy here makes it all a little less terrifying—knowing he’ll be waiting for me when I get back.
So here I am, stuck in a maze of mysteries with the enigma levels off the charts. Hidden forces pulling strings, me trying not to drown in the crazy. It’s like a real-life version of Stranger Things, minus the cool haircuts and telekinesis.
Wish me luck, diary—I’m definitely gonna need it.
Wednesday, January 21, 2026
History Lessons and Hidden Agendas
Ugh, fate just had to throw a curveball at me and Teddy in History class. We’re usually like peas in a pod, but apparently the universe decided that was too much happiness for one semester. Thanks a lot, Mr. Jefferson.
Last term, he had us build family trees that went way back—like “prehistoric ancestors and questionable great-aunts” back. I thought it was just busywork, but nope. Turns out, he had bigger plans. This semester, he grouped us based on modern history themes, and surprise, surprise—it led straight to chaos.
Teddy scored a one-way ticket to the “Global Issues and Contemporary History” row, while I got stuck in the “World War II” section, right next to none other than Ellie Horton—perfect posture and that too-cool calm that makes you wonder what’s really going on behind it.
Because clearly, the universe has a twisted sense of humor. Out of everyone in that class, who do I end up beside? Ellie—the mayor’s daughter, Candy Gang royalty, and now my accidental History partner. Why? Because my Gran’s cousin’s cat’s previous owner’s neighbor’s friend twice removed was apparently a nurse during the war. Or something equally random.
Apparently, collaborating in Drama class wasn’t enough. Now we’re reenacting tension in History too. Can I get a standing ovation for my luck?
Let’s see how Ellie Horton handles having me as her spunky sidekick for the rest of the semester. Maybe my witty charm will distract her from Candy’s usual theatrics. Who knows—maybe this oddball partnership will actually make history. But let’s be real… this whole situation’s a ticking Candy-coated time bomb waiting to explode.
Thursday, January 22, 2026
Creative Chaos and Camera Dreams
Media Studies is where it’s really at this semester. We’ve switched gears from theory to actual media production, and boy, am I excited. Time to unleash the creative beast within me! I can’t wait to dive into all things media and explore the world of video production—and maybe even learn some awesome editing skills.
With Teddy by my side, these classes are going to be epic. He’s always up for some fun and mischief, so I know we’ll make the most of our time together. Who knows, maybe we’ll even pull off some media masterpieces that’ll blow everyone’s minds.
Agent Penny and the Paranoid Partner
Oh, lunchtime—the epitome of excitement… not. The cafeteria was its usual snooze-fest, with nothing noteworthy happening. Well, except for Candy shooting me one of her sugar-sweet smiles from across the room—the kind that says just you wait. Cavanagh was right beside her, pretending not to look, which somehow made it creepier. I focused on my sandwich instead, but the memory of what I’d overheard in that alley still buzzed in the back of my head.
But who cares when you’ve got a bestie on full-on paranoia alert?
Teddy and his spy-level instincts never fail to amuse me. Seriously, the guy’s like a walking CIA briefing, always scanning for threats. And now, with all the mind-bending secrets swirling around us, he’d cranked his worry dial up to eleven.
Of course, Mr. Paranoid launched into one of his phone-privacy lectures. You know the kind. How microphones are always listening. How nothing stays private. How “they” don’t need permission anymore. According to Teddy, the universe is basically one bad algorithm away from knowing my sandwich order and my darkest secrets.
I rolled my eyes. “If someone’s spying on me, they’re about to learn way too much about cafeteria lunches.”
He didn’t laugh. That’s how I knew he was serious.
Still, I get it. With Clearwater looming and weird things already messing with my memories, the idea that someone—or something—might be listening isn’t exactly comforting. Teddy worries because that’s how he protects people. Even when it comes out as conspiracy-lite rambling.
I let him finish. He looked relieved, like he’d successfully issued a public safety announcement.
And honestly? I’ll take a paranoid best friend over silence any day.
As long as we’re watching our backs, I’m in.
Just call me Agent Penny.
Oscar Chaos on TV
I was in the kitchen while Mom cooked, half-listening to the TV babble through the local news. Normally I tune that stuff out, but then the anchor said a name I actually recognized: Charisma Cavanagh.
Meridia Falls’s official claim to Hollywood fame.
Turns out she snagged a Best Actress nomination at the Oscars for Notes of Desolation—some intense indie drama the adults won’t stop gushing about. Big moment for the town, apparently. Confetti-level hype.
And then it hit me.
Candy wasn’t suddenly glued to Rich “The Dick” Cavanagh because she liked him.
Nope.
She smelled Oscar glitter from a mile away.
Classic Candy—spotlight first, human second.
The station cut to a live shot outside the Cavanagh mansion, rain pouring down like the town was trying to wash off the drama. And there was Candy, hanging off Cavanagh like a high-end accessory while reporters swarmed his mom.
He looked like he wanted to evaporate. Honestly? Same.
The reporter asked him how he felt about his mom’s nomination, and he froze like someone had hit pause on a remote. Candy swooped in instantly—all smiles, all compliments, acting like she had been personally nominated. She practically beamed her way into the camera lens.
I could practically see her future Instagram captions forming in real time.
And yeah, I’d bet money Cavanagh won’t be reposting any of that.
Then the anchor tossed in the usual gossip seasoning—bringing up Charisma Cavanagh’s old adult-film past like they were adding “spice” to the segment. Cavanagh absolutely hates when anyone mentions that about his mom; you can practically see him turn into a human stress ball.
And look… I’m not saying I enjoy watching him suffer, but let’s just say a little karmic discomfort for a guy who’s made Teddy’s life miserable?
Yeah. I wasn’t exactly shedding tears.
Friday, January 23, 2026
Brainpower Surprise
Apparently, miracles do happen—because I aced a Math quiz today. Yeah, me. Penny Summers, sworn enemy of numbers and proud member of the I’ll-never-use-algebra-in-real-life club.
Even Mr. Matheson did a double take when he handed back my paper. I half expected him to call NASA and ask if they’d swapped my brain out for a calculator.
Cafeteria Fallout
At lunch Teddy brought up the juicy news about Cavanagh’s mom getting an Oscar nomination, and wow were we on the exact same wavelength about Candy’s sudden obsession with her boyfriend. Pure opportunist energy. Classic Candy.
We were mid-gossip when fate decided to throw a pie straight at my face.
Cavanagh strutted into the cafeteria like he thought he was the halftime show, soaking up every whistle and “yo bro!” like it was oxygen. And of course, he beelined straight for Teddy—because why pick on someone your own size when you can go after someone actually decent?
“What you looking at, Karate Boy Chicken?” he said.
That was all he had. Karate. Boy. Chicken.
The best he could come up with.
And somehow it still riled me—way more than it riled Teddy.
And something in me just… snapped.
Before my brain even tried to intervene, I shot back:
“Probably your mom’s naked ass—just like every other guy in this school.”
Yep.
I actually said that.
Silence.
You could’ve heard a heartbreak drop.
Then the regret slammed in like a semi truck.
Instant nausea. Instant what-have-I-done. Instant “why am I like this?”
Cavanagh’s face went stone still. Teddy sank into himself. And me? I sat there pretending I meant to say it while wishing I could rewind the entire cafeteria by ten seconds.
Lunch was officially a dumpster fire.
Victory Crash Landing
For about five glorious minutes, I felt unstoppable.
Aced the Math quiz, actually understood half the questions, and for a split second I even let myself enjoy the tiny glow of… competence. But the cafeteria blow-up kept flicking at the back of my mind like an annoying pop-up ad.
Yeah, Cavanagh deserved a verbal smackdown—just maybe not that nuclear.
Still, I skated home with winter wind in my hair, pretending the universe was finally letting me have a win. Even my playlist behaved—no ads, no breakup songs, just pure victory vibes.
And then… reality tapped me on the shoulder.
I walked into my room, dropped my bag on the bed, and started packing for another weekend at the Meridian—snacks (obviously), my flowery diary (dramatic on the inside only), an extra hoodie—still riding the high from earlier.
Until I looked up at the calendar.
The big red X over Friday, January 30.
Next Clearwater visit.
Instant mood killer.
The excitement drained faster than a phone battery at 2 percent. I stared at that X for a full minute, the weight of it pressing down. The last visit replayed in my head: sterile white rooms, needles, strange dreams afterward. And now that I think I know what might’ve been going on there—those experiments, the memory blasts—the thought of going back made my stomach twist.
Still, avoiding it wasn’t an option. Not unless I wanted to give Mom a reason to hover more than she already does. So I zipped up my bag, told myself to suck it up, and headed downstairs just as her car horn honked outside.
Two Nights Too Many
Mom was already half in work mode when I climbed into the passenger seat. Her travel mug smelled like cinnamon tea, and the backseat was full of files from the spa in Halifax—because of course she was working on her day off, even while driving me to the Meridian.
We’d barely hit Main Street when I dropped it, casual as I could manage.
“I don’t think I need to keep staying at Clearwater,” I said, eyes on the passing houses. “My ESD’s under control. The transfusions work. I don’t need to stay overnight every single month like some kind of lab rat.”
Mom’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Penelope…” she started, but I kept going.
“I’m serious, Mom. Every time I go, it feels… wrong. I hate staying for the weekend. Can’t they just do the transfusion and let me come home?”
Her sigh could’ve powered a wind turbine. “It’s not just about the transfusions,” she said. “They have to monitor you afterward—to make sure your body adjusts properly. It’s not just about keeping you safe; it’s about helping other patients too. What they’re learning from you could change lives.”
“Yeah, I know,” I muttered. “And you know what else? Monitors exist at home. Ever heard of Wi-Fi, Mom?”
That earned me the look. The one that says you are two seconds from losing phone privileges for eternity.
“This isn’t just about convenience, Penny,” she said. “You remember what happened after the accident. You nearly—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “I won’t take that chance again.”
The car went quiet except for the hum of the highway. I stared at my reflection in the window, feeling that familiar mix of guilt and rebellion bubble up.
“It’s been nine years,” I said softly. “I was a kid.”
“And it can still happen,” she shot back. Her voice cracked slightly, but she kept her eyes on the road. “You’re lucky Clearwater took you into their program. Most families would kill for that kind of care—and the scholarship.”
Ah yes, the eternal guilt-trip cherry on top.
“So basically, I’m their charity case,” I said, forcing a laugh.
Mom glanced over, her tone softening. “You can drop out any time you like.”
I turned toward her. “Wait, really?”
She smiled faintly, eyes back on the road. “After you start college.”
There it was. The classic Mom loophole.
We pulled up outside the Meridian, headlights bouncing off the glass doors. She reached over and brushed my sleeve—one of those tiny mom gestures that says I still worry about you more than you’ll ever know. Even that felt a little forced, like it was duty more than affection.
“It’s just two nights a month,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” I said, gripping my bag. “Two unnecessary nights.”
She drove off toward Halifax, and I stood there watching her taillights fade into the dusk. My Math victory suddenly felt microscopic compared to everything else spinning in my head—Clearwater, memory wipes, and the sneaking suspicion that next Friday wasn’t going to be just another transfusion day.
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DB
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