Lena's hands trembled as she peeled the photograph off the drying rack. The glossy surface felt cold between her fingertips, like holding a secret not meant to be seen. She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.
"No way," she whispered.
She turned sharply, scanning the dimly lit darkroom. The red glow of the safelight painted the small space in eerie shadows. Empty.
Lena exhaled a shaky breath. It had to be a mistake. A trick of the film. Maybe a flaw in the camera's lens? Yes, that had to be it.
Determined to prove herself wrong, she grabbed her camera and loaded a fresh roll of film. She needed more pictures, something to compare against the strange images she had just developed. If the figure was still there, then…
She didn't want to think about that.
Stepping out of the darkroom, Lena walked through her apartment, clicking the shutter in quick succession. The bookshelf, the kitchen counter, the hallway mirror—each captured with steady hands, though her heart was anything but calm.
That night, she developed the new photos, her stomach knotting as she hung each one to dry. As the images took shape, her breath hitched in her throat.
The figure was there.
Closer this time.
In the photo of her bookshelf, it stood at the end of the hallway—a tall, dark shape blending into the shadows. In the kitchen shot, it loomed behind her dining chair. But the worst was the last image.
The one she had taken of the hallway mirror.
In the reflection, the figure stood directly behind her, its blurred face just inches away from her own.
Lena stumbled backward, her chair scraping against the floor. This wasn't a lens flaw. It wasn't an accident.
She wasn't alone.
A soft creak echoed through her apartment.
The hair on her arms stood on end. She turned toward the hallway, her breath shallow.
Nothing.
But she felt it.
Somewhere, in the quiet darkness, something was watching her.
And it was getting closer.
Lena barely slept the night. Every creak of her apartment made her flinch, every flicker of the streetlights outside sent her heart pounding. The photographs haunted her, lingering in her mind like a whisper she couldn't quite hear.
By morning, exhaustion clung to her like a heavy blanket, but she needed answers. The old man at the flea market—he had to know something. She grabbed the camera and hurried out the door.
The market was quieter on weekdays, and she found his stall easily. But when she approached, dread settled in her stomach.
The stall was empty.
No cameras, no trinkets. No sign that it had ever been there.
Lena turned to the vendor next door. "Do you know where the man who runs this stall went?"
The woman frowned. "That stall's been empty for months."
Lena's breath caught in her throat. That wasn't possible.
She gripped the camera tighter and turned away, her mind spinning. Maybe she was imagining things, maybe she was losing it.
But when she got home, the air inside her apartment felt different.
Charged. Heavy.
She set the camera down and glanced at the hallway mirror, dread creeping up her spine.
Her reflection stared back at her.
But it wasn't alone.
The figure was there.
Standing inside the mirror.
Watching. Waiting.
And this time, it was smiling.