The Film Roll

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. As a kid, I’d laugh at the creaky floorboards and the way the draft made the doors groan. My family moved into the old farmhouse when I was six, and the only thing that ever made me uneasy was that narrow hallway leading to the spare room. We used it for storage—boxes of Christmas decorations, old photo albums, and a couple of broken lamps. I’d joke that it was haunted, but it was just a joke. The hallway was just dark and cramped, with a single bulb that flickered.

When I turned twenty, I decided to take the spare room for myself. It was bigger than my old room, and I liked the privacy. The first night, I lay in bed, listening to the house settle. That’s when I heard it: a distinct, mechanical *click* right by my ear. Not like a tap or a knock, but the shutter of an old camera. It was loud and clear, as if someone had pressed a button an inch from my skull. My heart slammed. I didn’t move, just lay there, staring into the dark, waiting for something else. But nothing came. After a while, I convinced myself it was a trick of the old house, a pipe settling.

Over the next few weeks, the clicks continued. Always at night, always when I was on the edge of sleep. Sometimes I’d whip my head around, but there was nothing. I started leaving the light on, but the clicks didn’t care. They’d come regardless, sometimes close, sometimes farther, like something moving around the room. I told my mom, who laughed it off. ‘It’s an old house, honey. Maybe it’s the electrical.’ I didn’t believe her.

One night, I was reading a book, and the clicks came rapid-fire, like a burst of photos. I dropped the book, my heart pounding. And then I noticed something odd: a faint, musty smell, like old paper and dust. It seemed to come from the hallway. I grabbed my phone and shone the light down the corridor. There was nothing there, but the smell grew stronger. I took a few steps, and my foot knocked against something hard. I looked down and saw a small, black object—an old film canister, rusted at the edges. I’d never seen it before. I picked it up, and the lid popped off, revealing a roll of film. It was wound tightly.

I had a sudden, irrational urge to develop it. There was a local shop that still did film, so the next day I dropped it off. The clerk, an old man with thick glasses, held it up to the light and squinted. ‘This is old stock,’ he said. ‘Where’d you find it?’ I told him, and he just nodded, a strange look on his face.

When I returned to pick up the prints, the clerk was pale. ‘Where did you say you live?’ he asked. I told him, and he handed me a manila envelope. ‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ he said, and he hurried away.

I opened the envelope in my car. The first few photos were blurry—stairs, a hallway, a door. But then I saw it: a picture of my room, taken from the closet. There was a figure in the corner, a dark silhouette, too blurred to make out. I flipped to the next photo: the same room, but the figure was closer. Then another: it was almost at the foot of the bed. And the last photo: the figure was leaning over a sleeping person. The person was me.

My hands were shaking. I drove home, my mind racing. That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in a chair, staring at the door, expecting something. But the clicks were gone. Instead, I heard a new sound: a soft, mechanical whirring, like a camera advancing film. It came from the hallway. I tiptoed to the door and peered out. There, in the dark, stood a tall, thin figure, holding an old camera with a large lens. It raised the camera to its face, and I heard the shutter click. A flash went off, blinding me.

When my vision cleared, the figure was gone. But I felt a strange warmth on my face. I touched my cheek and my hand came away wet. I looked in the mirror and saw a thin cut on my cheek, like a paper cut. It wasn’t bleeding much, but it stung.

I tried to tell the police, but they thought I was crazy. I moved my room back upstairs, but the clicks followed. They were softer now, but persistent, like a ghost whispering. I realized I hadn’t gotten rid of the film canister. It sat on my nightstand like a curse. I tried to throw it away, but it always ended up back.

One night, I woke to find a new photo on my pillow. It was a picture of me, asleep, with a date stamp: that day’s date. Below the date, in handwriting, were the words, ‘One roll left.’

I don’t know what happens when the roll ends. But I’ve started counting the clicks. Last night, I heard a click and felt a sting on my arm. I looked and saw a thin red line, like a scratch. I’m running out of time. And the figure is always there, waiting in the dark, its camera never blinking.

I can hear it now, in the hallway, winding the film. Click. Click. Click. I’m not sure how many more I have. But I know it’s counting down to something. And when it gets to zero, I’ll be the last picture on the roll.