Murder?!

This is about a girl who sneaks into a house and discovers a diary. How would she have wished she didn't pick that house to steal...

Summer 1658 – Amsterdam (The Netherlands)

Dear Diary, I read: Today I felt terribly ill… *sneeze* With fright that made my heart beat faster I looked around. I knew for certain that it wasn’t my imagination that made me hear sneezes. Carefully I pricked my ears: I heard something crack on the floor below! Anxiously my eyes moved from the door back to the journal, I just had found. I hadn’t read much of the handwritten reports, but I was certain about the fact it was a woman who had written all of this down. Was she sick? I just had to read more. The only problem was that it wasn’t mine and I… kind of broke into this canal house.
‘What are you doin’ here?!’ A voice barked. Quickly I hid the found diary under my coat. ‘N... Nothing sir,’ I stuttered and looked around for a way to escape. The man that owned the terrifying voice came closer to me. ‘WHAT are you DOIN’ here?’ he started to scream with his perfect Dutch language. ‘Let me guess. You’re a poor one and want to steal from the richer ones. You. Little. Zorro,’ he guessed sarcastically. And it was true. In the times of what the government called the Golden Century, the riches became richer and the poor became poorer. And my family was poor…
My body was full of stress. Under the coat, my grip around the diary became stronger. I felt how the paper marked his presence with a cut in my finger. The pain wasn’t unmanageable, but for one single second I had to bite my lower lip. ‘You have the diary, haven’t you?’ The man looked mean and smiled. How did he know? The biting! ‘You poor teenage girl.’ He started to laugh. The police was coming, I was sure of that. I was busted…
Quickly I ran to the nearby window and opened it. Before I broke into this house, I had seen there was a stair placed next to it. I moved my body between the wood and the window that was about to fall down again and grabbed the stairs with one hand.
The man that had localised me didn’t hurry to stop me from fleeing. Instead of the ordinary actions someone would have taken, he just quietly walked to the window. ‘You have cut yourself with it, haven’t you?’ He smiled fulfilled, showing me some blood on his finger. ‘This blood is yours, isn’t it?’ He placed his finger on the glass of the window above him and started to draw with the blood on his finger. It was a cross. The cross of death… ‘The police aren’t going to get you.’ He drew a circle around the cross: ‘Death will.’ He smiled at me. I turned around and ran away as fast as I could.

Under the bridge I sat down on a wooden box. Rapidly I took the diary away from under my coat and opened it. I started to read the last written page.
1435, October 28.
I have fainted twice today, what is wrong?! Yesterday I had cut my finger on the paper of this diary. It was since then I felt uncomfortable. Don’t be silly, you can’t blame the paper. You’re just stressed, that’s all. But what if? Oh, now I’m even arguing with myself! But the fact is: I feel sick! I shouldn’t have broken into this canal house, where I have ‘found’ this beautiful book to write in.
And here an other hand started to write: Time of Death: 1435, 28 October, 7:34. Cause of Death: Poisoned Paper.
I felt how panic squeezed my heart. And it all went Black…

Author's Note

I'm not English myself, so forgive me my grammar mistakes.