In the attic of our new house, I found a disposable camera. The film was full, so I had it developed, expecting old family photos or scenery. Instead, every picture was of me — sleeping.
At first, I thought it was a prank. But the photos were dated three months before we moved in.
Every image was taken from a different angle around my bed, closer each time. The last one was a close-up — my eyes open, staring straight into the lens.
I showed the photos to my wife, and she turned pale. “That’s not our bed,” she whispered. “That’s the guest room.”
We went to check, but the door was locked from the inside. I forced it open. The air was cold, thick with dust, and there were footprints in the carpet — mine.
And on the nightstand was another disposable camera. Fresh. Waiting.
