The first photograph arrived on a rainy Tuesday morning, slipped into her mailbox without a return address.
Anna didn’t think much of it at first. It was a picture of her house, taken from across the street. The angle was odd, slightly tilted, as if the photographer had been hiding while taking the shot.
She assumed it was a mistake—a neighbor’s hobby gone astray or some prank. She tucked it into a drawer and went about her day, dismissing the uneasy feeling that prickled at her.
The second photograph came three days later.
This one was closer, taken from the hedge at the edge of her yard. Anna could see herself through the living room window, sitting at the table, sipping her morning coffee.
Her heart raced as she examined the picture. The date on the corner told her it had been taken the previous day. She hadn’t seen anyone near her house, hadn’t heard anything unusual.
She locked all her doors and windows that night, her sleep restless and filled with dark dreams.
By the end of the week, the photos became more disturbing.
A shot of her daughter’s bedroom, taken from the hallway.
A picture of her husband in the backyard, leaning over the grill.
Images taken from inside her home, where no stranger should have been.
Anna called the police, but they dismissed her concerns. Without a clear threat, the photographs were unsettling but not actionable.
“Maybe someone’s playing a prank,” the officer had said, offering a sympathetic smile. “Keep your doors locked, and let us know if anything escalates.”
That night, Anna tore apart the house, checking every closet, every crawlspace. Nothing was out of place, but the walls seemed to press in around her, heavy with an unseen presence.
The next photograph was different.
It showed her family at the dinner table—herself, her husband, and her daughter. But there was something wrong with the image.
Behind them, in the darkened corner of the room, stood a figure.
Its outline was faint, almost indistinguishable from the shadows, but the longer she stared, the more it became clear. The figure was tall and lean, its face indistinct, its body seemingly out of focus.
Anna’s hands trembled as she clutched the photograph. She knew for certain that no one had been in the house that night.
At least, not anyone she could see.
Anna installed security cameras the next day, desperate for answers. She placed them in every room, monitoring the feeds obsessively.
For three nights, nothing happened. The cameras recorded empty hallways, silent rooms, and the occasional flicker of headlights from passing cars.
But on the fourth night, she noticed something strange.
The feed from the living room camera showed her and her husband watching television. It looked normal—except for the reflection in the window behind them.
The figure was there again. This time, its face was turned toward the camera, though it lacked any distinct features. It was as though someone had erased its identity, leaving only a blank void where a face should have been.
The cameras had captured what her eyes couldn’t see.
The photographs came faster now, slipping under her door in the dead of night. Each one showed more detail, more of the figure. It moved closer in every frame—through the garden, into the hallway, up the stairs.
The final photo was taken in her daughter’s room.
Anna couldn’t breathe as she stared at the image. Her daughter lay asleep in her bed, unaware of the figure standing over her. Its featureless face was tilted downward, as if watching her dream.
That night, Anna didn’t sleep. She sat in the hallway outside her daughter’s room, clutching a kitchen knife, her ears straining for the slightest sound.
Desperation drove her to investigate.
She searched the photos for clues, noting the strange angles and locations from which they’d been taken. One image, shot from high above the house, showed an unfamiliar building in the distance—a derelict warehouse on the outskirts of town.
Anna drove there the next morning, the roads eerily quiet. The warehouse loomed ahead, its windows shattered, its walls covered in graffiti. She hesitated before stepping inside, her flashlight casting long, quivering shadows on the concrete floor.
The air was thick with the smell of mildew and rust.
In the center of the warehouse, she found a table covered in photographs—hundreds of them, all of her family.
Some were old, taken years ago, while others were from the past week. Beneath them lay a journal filled with scrawled notes and symbols she didn’t understand.
A single phrase was repeated on nearly every page: “The invisible must become seen.”
That night, the final photograph arrived.
It wasn’t of her house or her family. It was of Anna herself, taken at the moment she’d entered the warehouse.
The figure stood behind her, its hand reaching for her shoulder.
The lights in her house flickered that night, and Anna felt the air grow colder. She turned, her heart pounding, and saw nothing but empty space.
But when she looked into the mirror, she saw it—standing just behind her, closer than ever before.
And then, for the first time, it moved.
“I am here,” it whispered, its voice a rasp that chilled her to the bone.
The photographs had been warnings, a slow unraveling of her reality. But now, the thing she couldn’t see was no longer content to remain hidden.
Anna screamed as the mirror shattered, plunging the house into darkness.
And somewhere in the void, the camera clicked.