The Last Polaroid

Ever since I was a kid, I had an imaginary friend. I called him Mr. Grimsby, though I don’t remember why. He was tall, wore a gray overcoat, and had a face I could never quite picture, even in my own mind. My parents played along at first, setting a place for him at dinner, letting me save him a seat on car rides. But as I grew older, Mr. Grimsby faded, as they do. I forgot about him completely until last month, while cleaning out my late grandmother’s attic.

I found a box of old photographs, brittle and yellowed, tied with a frayed ribbon. I was sifting through them, marveling at faces I barely recognized, when I came across one that made my blood run cold. It was a picture of me, maybe four years old, sitting on the front steps of our old house. But I wasn’t alone. Next to me, half-hidden in the shadow of the porch, was a tall figure in a gray overcoat. His face was obscured, but I knew who it was. It was Mr. Grimsby.

I showed the photo to my mother, trying to laugh it off as a trick of the light or a relative I’d forgotten. But her face went pale. She grabbed the photo, her hands trembling, and whispered, ‘Where did you find this?’ I told her, and she just stared at it for a long time. Finally, she said, ‘I’ve never seen this before. And I don’t remember ever taking a picture like this.’ She handed it back to me, her eyes avoiding mine.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept staring at the photo, trying to make out the figure’s features. But the more I looked, the more it seemed to shift, like it was alive. I put it in a drawer and tried to forget. But then things started happening. I’d find the photo on my pillow, or in my coat pocket, even though I’d locked it in the drawer. And I started seeing him. Out of the corner of my eye, a tall figure in a gray overcoat, standing at the edge of a parking lot or in a crowded street. But when I turned to look, he was gone.

It came to a head last week. I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when the mirror fogged up. I wiped it with my hand, and for a split second, I saw him reflected behind me, his face still obscured. I whirled around, but no one was there. My heart pounded. I ran out of the house, and I’ve been staying at a motel ever since, too afraid to go back.

I’ve tried talking to people. I called my mother, but she just said, ‘Don’t dwell on it, dear. It’s just your imagination.’ She sounded distant, like she was trying to convince herself. I went to a therapist, but when I showed him the photo, he stared at it blankly and said he didn’t see anything. I looked at the photo, and it was just me, sitting alone on the steps. The figure was gone. But I know what I saw. I know he’s real.

Now I’m sitting in this motel room, the curtains drawn, the door locked. I have the photo in front of me, and once again, he’s in it, his presence more defined than before. I can almost make out his face now, and it’s familiar. It’s the face of a man I saw in an old family album, a man my grandmother used to talk about, a man who disappeared under mysterious circumstances decades ago. His name was Nathaniel, and he was my great-uncle. I’m terrified, not of what he is, but of what he wants. And the worst part is, I know he’s getting closer.