Mike sat in the dim glow of his laptop, the hum of the computer the only sound in his otherwise silent apartment. His eyes were bloodshot, staring at the screen as he scrolled through countless images. Photography had once been his passion, his escape, but lately, it felt more like a burden. His career was slipping away, and his life was falling apart. He hadn’t picked up his camera in weeks.
That night, in a last-ditch effort to reignite his creative spark, he decided to go through an old memory card he found at the bottom of a drawer. It was unmarked, forgotten, just like everything else in his life. He inserted it into his laptop, hoping to find something—anything—that might reignite the fire within him.
The first few photos were ordinary—streets, buildings, the mundane details of city life. But then, as he clicked through the images, something caught his eye. In the background of one photo, standing in the distance, was a figure. It was human-shaped, but its face was blurred, as though the camera had failed to focus. The figure stood alone on a deserted street, its body rigid, unnerving.
Mike frowned. He didn’t remember taking that shot, but it was late, and he was tired. He dismissed it as a glitch, an out-of-focus shot that didn’t deserve a second thought. But as he continued to scroll through the photos, the figure appeared again. And again. Each time, it was a little closer, a little more defined. Yet the face remained a blur, an unsettling void that made his skin crawl.
“What the hell is this?” he muttered, leaning closer to the screen. His voice sounded foreign in the quiet apartment, cracking from disuse. He tried to rationalize it. “Maybe... maybe it's just a trick of the light,” he whispered, almost as if saying it out loud would make it true. But deep down, he knew something was off.
He leaned back in his chair, unease settling in his gut. His apartment felt colder, the shadows longer, more menacing. He tried to shake off the feeling, chalking it up to fatigue, but something about those images gnawed at him.
Mike pulled up the final photo on the screen. His breath caught in his throat. The figure was now front and center, staring directly at the camera—or at least it seemed to be. Its face was still a featureless blur, but the body was sharp, defined. It was close enough that he could make out the creases in its clothing, the way its hands hung at its sides, almost as if it were waiting for something.
“No… no, this isn’t right,” he whispered, the words trembling as they left his lips. He closed the laptop with a snap, his heart pounding. The image was burned into his mind, the faceless figure lurking in the darkness of his thoughts.
He stood up, trying to shake off the growing dread. “Get a grip, Michael,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You’re just tired. It’s nothing… just a mistake.” But the words felt hollow, an empty reassurance that did nothing to calm the storm brewing in his chest.
That night, the figure haunted his dreams. He found himself in the same deserted street from the photos, the air thick with an unnatural chill. The figure was there, standing at the end of the road, its blurred face turned towards him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The figure started walking, slow, deliberate steps that echoed in the silence.
Mike woke up drenched in sweat, the echo of the figure’s footsteps still ringing in his ears. He tried to laugh it off, but the fear was real, clawing at the edges of his sanity. He grabbed his phone and dialed Samantha, his only close friend who hadn’t drifted away with his career.
“Samantha?” he said, his voice shaky.
“Mike? It’s 3 a.m. Are you okay?” Her voice was groggy, tinged with concern.
“I… I don’t know. I think… something’s wrong with me. I’m seeing things… in photos, in my dreams. There’s this figure—” He stopped, realizing how insane he must sound.
“Mike, slow down. What figure? What are you talking about?” Samantha’s tone shifted to one of serious concern.
“I found this old memory card, started going through it… and there’s this figure, Samantha. It’s in every photo. And it’s getting closer. I can’t… I can’t explain it, but I feel like it’s watching me, like it’s real.” His voice cracked, the fear seeping through his words.
“Mike, it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Maybe you’re just tired… or maybe it’s some weird glitch with the camera.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Mike said, though the words felt like a lie. “But it feels real. Too real.”
“Look, why don’t you get some rest? We’ll talk in the morning, okay? You’re probably just exhausted.”
“Yeah… okay. Thanks, Sam.”
But even after hanging up, Mike couldn’t shake the dread. Over the next few days, the figure began to bleed into his waking life. He saw it in reflections, in the corner of his eye, standing in the background of crowds. He would look again, and it would be gone, but the cold dread lingered. His paranoia grew, his once orderly life descending into chaos. He avoided his laptop, terrified of what he might see if he opened it again.
But curiosity got the better of him. One evening, he couldn’t resist. He opened the laptop and pulled up the photos. There it was, the faceless figure, as unnerving as ever. He stared at it, his heart hammering in his chest, and then he did something he hadn’t planned on. He printed it.
As the printer whirred to life, the room seemed to grow darker, the air heavier. The photo emerged, the glossy paper sliding out with a finality that made his breath hitch. He stared at the print in his hands, the figure now solid, tangible. But the longer he looked, the more it felt like it was looking back at him.
“Mike? Mike, open up!” It was Samantha, her voice muffled through the door. She hadn’t heard from Mike in days, and worry had driven her to check in. She knocked again, harder this time. “Mike, are you in there?”
When there was no answer, Samantha pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked. The apartment was cold and dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the laptop screen. She stepped inside, her heart pounding. “Mike?”
The silence was deafening. She moved further into the apartment, her eyes scanning the cluttered space. On the desk, she found a single photograph. It showed Mike’s apartment, the very room she stood in, but in the center of the image stood a figure—faceless, its body a sharp contrast to the blurred edges of the room. It was close to the camera, close to Mike, close to her.
She dropped the photo, backing away as a chill ran down her spine. The air around her seemed to thicken, the shadows growing darker, deeper. “Mike?” she called out again, her voice trembling.
But when she turned to leave, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching her.
