The Photograph Behind Me

The photograph was taken on October 17, 2009.

I know the date because the original file still exists.

I wish it didn’t.

I was thirteen years old when it happened. My parents had left me at my grandmother’s house for the weekend while they went out of town. I remember being bored almost the entire time.

My grandmother’s house was old. Really old.

It had belonged to her parents before her, and almost everything inside looked like it had been left there decades ago. The wallpaper was faded yellow. The carpets were worn thin. The living room was always dark because my grandmother kept the curtains closed.

And then there was the couch.

A huge black leather couch sat against the living-room wall.

Nobody liked sitting on it.

My grandmother always said the springs were broken.

I believed her.

That afternoon, I was lying sideways across it, wearing a dark hoodie, playing around with an old phone I’d been given. I remember being bored enough that I started taking pictures of myself.

The photograph was completely ordinary.

At least, I thought it was.

I’m lying across the couch, looking at the camera. The flash has washed out most of my face. Behind me is the dark back of the couch and a patterned cushion.

Nothing unusual.

I took the picture and forgot about it.

That night, I uploaded the photographs to the family computer.

My younger sister was sitting beside me.

She looked at the picture.

Then she frowned.

She pointed at the screen.

“Who’s that?”

I laughed.

“Who’s who?”

She pointed behind me.

At first, I thought she meant the cushion.

Then I saw it.

There was a face between the cushions.

Pale skin.

Dark hair.

Two black eyes.

And a smile.

It was sitting directly behind me.

I stared at the screen.

My sister asked:

“Was Grandma’s friend there?”

“No.”

“Then who is that?”

I didn’t know.

I zoomed in.

The face became blurry.

I sharpened the image.

It became clearer.

I inverted the colors.

The face was still there.

I opened another photograph I’d taken only a few minutes later.

Nothing.

Another.

Nothing.

The face only appeared in the first picture.

I told myself it was a reflection.

A trick of the light.

Something in the background that my brain was turning into a face.

Then my sister said something that made me stop laughing.

“Why is it looking at you?”

I looked at the picture again.

She was right.

The thing wasn’t looking at the camera.

It was looking directly at me.

⸻

I called my grandmother.

She answered almost immediately.

I asked her if anyone had been sitting behind me when I took the photograph.

There was silence.

Then she asked:

“What photograph?”

I sent it to her.

She didn’t respond.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Finally, my phone rang.

I answered.

My grandmother was crying.

She asked me when the picture was taken.

I told her.

October 17.

She didn’t say anything for several seconds.

Then she whispered:

“That’s the same date.”

“The same date as what?”

She told me to come downstairs.

⸻

My grandmother was sitting at the kitchen table when I arrived.

She had the photograph open on her phone.

She looked sick.

I’d never seen her look like that before.

She finally told me about her younger brother.

His name was Michael.

He was six years old.

He disappeared from that house when my grandmother was a child.

It happened on October 17.

My grandmother said Michael had been playing in the living room while their mother cooked dinner.

At some point, the house became completely quiet.

Their mother called his name.

No answer.

They searched the bedrooms.

The basement.

The garden.

The attic.

Nothing.

Then they heard Michael laughing.

From the living room.

They ran back.

Michael was sitting on the black couch.

He was facing the wall.

Their mother asked him what he was doing.

He didn’t answer.

She walked around the couch.

Michael was staring at an empty corner.

Then he whispered:

“The man is hiding.”

His mother asked:

“Where?”

Michael pointed behind her.

She turned.

Nothing.

Then Michael started screaming.

He kept pointing behind his mother.

“He’s behind you!”

They pulled him away from the couch.

He wouldn’t stop looking over their shoulders.

That night, Michael disappeared.

There was no open door.

No broken window.

No footprints.

Nothing.

He simply vanished.

But three days later, the family found something.

A photograph.

It had been taken that evening.

Nobody remembered taking it.

It showed Michael sitting on the couch.

And behind him…

was the face.

The same face that was now in my photograph.

⸻

My grandmother told me that after Michael disappeared, strange things began happening.

Photographs would contain people who hadn’t been there.

Sometimes it was a face.

Sometimes it was a hand.

Once, there was a photograph of my grandmother standing beside her mother.

Between them stood the faint outline of a third person.

Nobody had been standing there.

They destroyed the photograph.

The next morning, another photograph appeared.

The figure was closer.

They destroyed that one too.

Another appeared.

Closer.

Again.

Closer.

Eventually, her family stopped taking photographs inside the house.

My grandmother believed that ended it.

It didn’t.

She eventually moved away.

But every few years, someone would take a photograph inside the house.

And the figure would return.

Always behind someone.

Always smiling.

Always closer than before.

Then my grandmother looked at me.

“It’s following you now.”

I laughed nervously.

I told her that was impossible.

She didn’t laugh.

Instead, she took my phone.

She zoomed into the photograph.

Then she whispered:

“It’s already closer than it was with Michael.”

⸻

I took the phone from her.

She was right.

The photograph had changed.

I was still lying on the couch.

But the figure was no longer sitting behind the cushions.

It was standing.

Its face was directly behind my head.

Its hands were resting on my shoulders.

I stared at the screen.

Then I checked the original file.

The photograph had somehow changed its date.

It now said:

October 17, 2026.

Today’s date.

I told my grandmother it had to be a glitch.

She shook her head.

Then she said something I’ll never forget.

“The camera isn’t creating it.”

“What?”

“The photographs aren’t bringing it here.”

She looked toward the living room.

“They show where it already is.”

⸻

That night, I stayed at my grandmother’s house.

I shouldn’t have.

At around 3:00 AM, I heard the couch creak.

Once.

Then again.

Like someone slowly sitting down.

I stayed completely still.

A few seconds passed.

Then I heard a quiet laugh.

A child’s laugh.

I reached for my phone.

The screen lit up.

New photo added.

I opened it.

It showed me lying in bed.

The photograph had been taken from the bedroom doorway.

My bedroom door was closed.

I looked at it.

Then back at the phone.

There was someone standing in the doorway.

The figure was almost completely black.

I could only see its pale face.

It was smiling.

I threw the phone across the room.

The screen went dark.

Then my bedroom door creaked open.

Slowly.

An inch.

Then another.

Then another.

I could see the hallway.

Nothing was there.

Then a little boy whispered from somewhere in the darkness:

“Don’t let him see you.”

I stopped breathing.

The voice came again.

This time, it was right beside my bed.

“He’s behind you.”

I didn’t turn around.

I couldn’t.

I stayed there until sunrise.

⸻

In the morning, I went downstairs.

My grandmother was already awake.

She looked at me.

Then she asked:

“Did you hear him?”

I nodded.

She closed her eyes.

Then she told me the part she had never told anyone.

Michael hadn’t simply disappeared.

The family eventually found more photographs.

Every photograph showed the same thing.

The entity getting closer.

Behind Michael.

Beside Michael.

Standing over Michael.

Until the final photograph.

Michael was no longer in it.

The figure was standing alone.

But there was something written on the back.

Three words.

HE’S STILL HERE.

My grandmother said her father became obsessed with finding out what the thing was.

He destroyed every camera in the house.

He burned photographs.

He tore apart the couch.

He even ripped open the walls.

Nothing worked.

Because the photographs weren’t summoning the entity.

They were only showing it.

Whatever it was had been inside that house long before Michael.

And it didn’t want to be photographed.

It wanted to be noticed.

⸻

I left my grandmother’s house that morning.

I didn’t say goodbye.

I didn’t take the photograph with me.

I deleted it.

I emptied the trash.

I destroyed the hard drive.

I thought that was the end.

For years, I never saw the figure again.

I grew up.

Moved away.

Got a new phone.

New computer.

New house.

I almost convinced myself that the whole thing had been some childhood nightmare.

Then, years later, I found an old backup drive.

There was one photograph on it.

The original.

October 17, 2009.

I stared at it.

The boy in the photograph was me.

The figure was behind me.

But something was different.

The figure wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was looking past me.

At the camera.

I zoomed in.

And that’s when I noticed something I had never seen before.

There was another person standing behind the figure.

A little boy.

Six years old.

Michael.

He was holding a piece of paper.

I enlarged the image.

Three words were written on it.

DON’T TURN AROUND.

⸻

I haven’t taken another photograph since.

I don’t take selfies.

I don’t use cameras.

I don’t even like mirrors.

But three nights ago, my phone made a notification sound.

I hadn’t touched it.

I picked it up.

There was a new photograph in my gallery.

I don’t remember taking it.

It showed me sleeping in bed.

The room was dark.

The photograph had been taken from the doorway.

And standing in the doorway was the figure.

It was closer than ever.

I could see its entire face.

Its smile.

Its black eyes.

Its hands.

Then I noticed something else.

A little boy was standing beside it.

Michael.

He was staring directly at the camera.

And this time, he wasn’t holding a warning.

He was pointing behind the photographer.

I froze.

Because I suddenly realized something.

The photograph hadn’t been taken from my doorway.

It had been taken from inside my room.

From directly behind my head.

I slowly looked at the dark screen of my phone.

Another notification appeared.

New photo added.

I didn’t open it.

A second notification appeared.

Front camera — 1 person detected.

Then another.

Front camera — 2 people detected.

I was alone in my bedroom.

At least, I thought I was.

The phone screen turned on by itself.

The camera opened.

I could see my own face on the screen.

Behind me was my bedroom.

Empty.

Then the camera adjusted its focus.

Something appeared behind my shoulder.

A pale face.

A black smile.

And a little boy standing beside it.

Michael looked directly into the camera.

His lips moved.

There was no sound.

But I understood what he was saying.

Run.

I didn’t move.

The figure smiled wider.

Then my phone displayed one final message:

Front camera — 3 people detected.

And from directly behind me, I heard my own voice whisper:

“Don’t turn around.”

Credit: Faðir

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