The Polaroid’s Truth

Ever since I found that cheap Polaroid camera at a yard sale, I’d been documenting my life. It was a nostalgic little thing, a Sun 660, and it only cost me a few bucks. I took pictures of everything: the morning sun slanting through my apartment windows, my cat Mittens, the overgrown garden in the courtyard, even the weird dust motes dancing in the light. It was all so normal, so reassuring in a life that was slowly unraveling.

It started with small things going missing. My keys, my phone charger, the remote. I’d find them in the most bizarre places: inside my shoes, under the sofa cushions, even in the freezer next to the ice cream. I’d always blamed my own forgetfulness, but after a while, I began to suspect something else. My apartment wasn’t old, but it had a strange energy to it. The previous tenant had been an old woman who’d died in the bedroom. The landlord had mentioned it briefly, but I hadn’t given it much thought.

Then the cameras started capturing things. At first, it was just the usual: a few dust motes in the air, a faint blur in the corner. But one day, I took a picture of my bedroom to test the flash, and in the developed photo, there were distinct, milky orbs hovering near the ceiling. I laughed it off, showing my friend Sam. ‘Probably dust or a lens flare,’ he said. But I didn’t believe it. I took more pictures, and the orbs appeared in every shot of that room, sometimes clustered near the window, sometimes right above my bed.

I decided to document everything. I created a journal, pasting each photo inside and writing notes. The missing items became more elaborate: a framed photo of my parents, my favorite book, even my car keys. I found them in the bathtub, inside the microwave, and once, tucked under the rug by the door. I never heard or saw anything, but I felt a constant pressure, a weight in the air, especially at night.

Then the sleep disturbances began. I’d be drifting off, and suddenly my blanket would be yanked off me, leaving me shivering. I’d wake up with scratches on my arms, or my pillow on the floor. My cat would hiss at the corner of the room, and sometimes I’d catch a dark shape in my peripheral vision. I was exhausted, a high school student who needed rest, but the nights became battles.

One night, I decided to set up the camera on a tripod in the living room, facing the hallway, and set it to take a photo every ten minutes. When I reviewed the shots, I nearly dropped the phone. In one, the hallway was empty. In the next, a transparent, hooded figure stood halfway down the corridor. In the following shot, it was closer, reaching out with gnarled, skeletal fingers. The final shot was dark, as if something had covered the lens.

I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up, clutching the photos, my heart pounding. I called Sam, who lived a couple of blocks away. He came over, and I showed him. He tried to rationalize it, but his face was pale. ‘Maybe it’s a double exposure or a light leak,’ he said, but his voice was shaky. He agreed to stay the night, sleeping on my couch.

At 3 AM, I was jerked awake by a sound like a gasp. I rushed to the living room. Sam was sitting upright on the couch, his eyes wide. ‘Something touched my face,’ he whispered. ‘A cold hand.’ I didn’t need to see the photo I’d taken on my way out. I could feel the presence behind me, a cold breath on my neck. I spun around, and for a split second, I saw it: a twisted, crying face, its mouth stretched in a silent wail. Then it was gone.

I don’t sleep in that apartment anymore. I’m staying with my aunt, and I’ve packed the camera away in a box. But last night, I dreamed of that face. And in the dream, it was holding my old picture of my parents. When I woke, I found the Polaroid camera on my nightstand. This morning, I developed the last photo I took. It shows me, asleep in my aunt’s spare room, and standing beside the bed, the same hooded figure, but now it’s wearing my mother’s face.