Stuck In A Monster Loop

I opened my eyes to a sharp sting in my arm.

Pushing up my sleeve, I froze.

A dense line of jagged letters had been carved into the skin of my right forearm:

[This house has monsters! Every time I'm killed, I'm thrown into a loop and lose all my memories. With each death, I mark my hand.]

Beneath the warning, three crooked tally marks were etched deep into my arm.

The words carved into my arm sent a chill racing down my spine.

If what they said was true… didn't that mean I had already been killed by the monster fifteen times?

"That's impossible… maybe it's just a sick prank…" I murmured under my breath.

But when I lifted my arm slightly, a tearing pain shot through me, making my whole body flinch. The wounds split open, and warm blood seeped out.

The wounds were deep and shallow by turns, warped and jagged, absolutely horrifying to look at.

Yet all I remembered was falling asleep at home. How could so many injuries appear out of nowhere? And why did I have no memory of them at all?

"Could I really have carved these myself?"

A shiver ran through me. I forced myself to calm down, reasoning it through.

"If it's just a prank, the worst is that I've been fooled. But if it's real… then I'm in serious danger. Better to assume it's all true, just to be safe, and treat it seriously.

"Still… I have no memory of any monster. Does that mean I was killed again in the last loop, and my mind was wiped clean? If so, this would be the start of a new cycle. Which means… I've actually died sixteen times, not fifteen."

I got to my feet, intending to find a utility knife to carve a new mark into my arm.

When I turned my head, I saw my knife lying right beside my pillow. Faint traces of blood still clung to the blade. I never kept it there—normally, my utility knife stayed in the pen holder on my desk.

Without hesitation, I picked it up and etched a fresh mark into my arm, gritting my teeth until it was done. Then, carefully, I slid the knife into my pocket.

The moment my hand went in, my fingers brushed against a folded scrap of paper.

On it, in shaky red writing, was a single line:

[The monster is tampering with my memory. Trust no one. Not even myself.]

I tucked the paper back into my pocket and lowered my head in thought.

Even though my memories were wiped each time, the blood on the knife and the writing on the paper proved that physical traces seemed to survive the reset.

Sixteen deaths. Sixteen cycles. In each one, I must have tried to leave myself clues.

I still knew nothing about the monster. If I wanted a way out, I had to gather every scrap of information I could.

Wasting no time, I began searching the room. After all, no one knew my hiding spots better than I did.

Sure enough, tucked away in familiar places, I found two more notes.

[The monster's cycle isn't endless. If you can't escape within a set number of loops, you will die. Permanently.]

[The monster is cunning and deceptive. It hides well and can take human form. But I suspect it can't kill at will. It must meet certain conditions first. I still haven't figured out what those conditions are.]

These, too, were messages I had left for myself—warnings from past loops, reaching across death to keep me alive.