The first few were like before — me, curled up in bed. By the fifth one, he was there again. Closer.
By the tenth, he was sitting on the edge of my bed, head tilted, watching me.
But the last photo was different. It wasn’t of me. It was of him — standing in my hallway, his face almost human.
And he spoke.
Not in a message. Not in my head.
The sound came from my phone, the photo flickering like a video that couldn’t load. His mouth moved in short, jerky motions. The voice was distorted, but clear enough to hear.
"You think I’m the only one watching?"
Then the screen flickered again — and for the first time, I saw them.
The shadows behind him weren’t shadows. They had eyes. Too many eyes.
And they were all looking at me.
The screen glitched once more, and a final message appeared, this time typed in bold, red letters:
"Check your closet."
My closet door was already open.
But the light wasn’t blinding anymore. It was dim, flickering like a dying bulb.
And I wasn’t alone.
There was a woman inside.
Her eyes were sewn shut, her mouth stitched into a twisted smile. She wore my clothes — my favorite shirt, the one I thought I lost.
She tilted her head, like she was listening. Then she whispered, in my voice:
"Don’t worry. He said I’ll learn to be you soon."
The Stranger In My Photos 9 (A New Turn)🤔🤔