The Babadook doesn't run. He doesn't scream.
New pages had appeared.
I checked the book. It was back on the shelf. I swear I threw it in the trash. Babadook
I should have burned it.
I'm the one knocking now. Knocking on wood. Knocking on my own head. Knocking on my son's door to check if he's still human. The Babadook doesn't run
The first page was harmless. A nursery rhyme about a mother and her boy. But when you turned to the second spread, the letters tilted. The paper felt rough, like scabs. If it's in a word, or in a look You can't get rid of the Babadook. I laughed. Tried to.
The Babadook doesn't kill you.
The book is gone. But I hear him in the walls.
Drawings of me. Sleeping. With a thin black hand resting on my throat. I checked the book
If you find this journal — don't look under the bed. Don't say his name three times. And if you hear three slow drags on the wall…