My Mom Removed My Bedroom Door So Her New Boyfriend Could “Monitor” Me. She Said I Was Making Up Lies About Him. Then I Found My Father’s Secret Journal Hidden In The Attic.

A Terrifying Threat

Uncle Henry copied the footage onto multiple USB drives. His hands steady and methodical. He said we needed to be careful about how we handled this.

We couldn’t just go to the police. Brandon might have connections there, friends who owed him favors. We needed to build an airtight case first. He told me to act normal at home, not to let on that we knew anything.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. But Brandon must have sensed something. Maybe I was a bad actress. Maybe he was just paranoid.

He started getting more aggressive. One night he came into my room and sat on my bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The hallway camera couldn’t see him from that angle.

He said he knew I’d been sneaking around with Uncle Henry. Someone had seen us at the library, probably one of his buddies who seemed to be everywhere. He said if I didn’t stop whatever I was doing mom might get hurt.

He said accidents happen all the time, his voice casual like he was discussing the weather. People fall downstairs. Cars have brake problems. Gas leaks happen.

I understood the threat. Felt it settle in my chest like a cold stone. I was terrified but tried to stay calm, keeping my breathing even.

I told Uncle Henry at our next meeting, whispering even though we were alone. He said we needed to move faster. He’d been in touch with dad’s lawyer, showing him what we’d found.

The lawyer was excited but cautious. He said we needed the original journal too. It would strengthen the case, prove the photos weren’t doctored.

I told him I’d get it even though the thought made me want to throw up. That night I waited until 3:00 a.m., watching the clock’s red numbers change with agonizing slowness. I crept to the bathroom, my bare feet silent on the carpet.

The Manipulation

I carefully retrieved the journal from the toilet tank, the plastic still protecting it. It was still dry in its plastic wrapping. Dad’s words safe. I put it in my backpack for school, zipping it into the inner pocket.

But when I came out of the bathroom Brandon was standing in the hallway like a ghost. He asked what I was doing up, his eyes glinting in the darkness. I said I felt sick, holding my stomach.

He stared at me for a long moment then let me pass. I felt his eyes on my back all the way to my room. The next morning my backpack was gone.

I found it in the kitchen empty. Its content spread across the table. Brandon was sitting at the table with the journal in front of him, flipping through pages with theatrical interest.

Mom was reading it, her face pale and confused. Brandon had told her I’d been writing fantasy stories about him, that I was disturbed, that I needed help. He’d started pointing out specific entries saying:

“Look how she’s trying to copy your husband’s handwriting. See how she mentions you and me together, this is clearly her sick fantasy about breaking us up.”

Mom’s confusion turned to anger as Brandon kept talking, weaving his lies with just enough truth to make them believable. Mom believed him. She said she was disappointed in me.

That making up lies about Brandon was sick, that she thought I was dealing with dad’s absence better than this. I tried to tell her it was dad’s journal but she wouldn’t listen. She said I was obviously forging dad’s handwriting to frame Brandon because I couldn’t accept him as my new father.

She said I needed therapy, maybe even a special boarding school for troubled teens. Brandon suggested his cousin ran one in another state. Very strict, very isolated. Good for fixing problem children who told lies and caused trouble.

The way he said it made my blood run cold. I felt the walls closing in, the room spinning slightly. That day at school I found Uncle Henry’s truck in the parking lot at lunch.

I climbed in and broke down crying as I told him what happened. He said not to worry, we still had the footage. But when I got home that afternoon my phone was missing from my backpack.

Brandon had it. He went through everything and found my cloud account, guessing the password after three tries. He made me watch as he deleted all the journal photos.

His finger stabbing at the screen with vicious satisfaction. He said Uncle Henry’s copies wouldn’t matter without the original to verify them against. He said the photos could be faked, that any decent lawyer would argue they were doctored without the original journal to compare the handwriting.

The bar footage was different. That was from an official security system with timestamps that could be verified. But handwriting and photos too easy to forge.