The Visitor in the Frame

The morning started like any other in our cramped apartment above the old bakery on Marrow Lane. I shuffled into the living room, flicked on the telly, and settled into the sagging armchair with a cup of instant coffee. Outside, the city was waking to a grey drizzle, and inside, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clank from the pipes. My partner, Sam, was still in bed, a warm lump under the duvet, and I relished the rare quiet before the day’s chaos.

But the quiet didn’t last. Within minutes, a snore erupted from the bedroom—a guttural, rattling sound that seemed to vibrate through the thin walls. I tried to ignore it, turning up the volume on a morning chat show, but the snoring grew louder, more insistent, like a wounded animal. It grated on my nerves until I could barely hear the TV. I knew Sam would deny it, always claiming he never snored, so I decided to catch him in the act. I grabbed my phone, tiptoed to the bedroom, and eased the door open.

The room was dim, curtains drawn against the grey light. Sam was a lump under the covers, his back to me, breathing in that awful rhythm. I sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him, and raised my phone to record. The screen showed Sam’s tousled hair and the rumpled blanket, but as I focused, something else appeared in the frame—a shape at the foot of the bed.

My breath caught. There, half on and half off the mattress, lay a figure. It was emaciated, skin stretched taut over bones, with long, spindly limbs that ended in claw-like fingers. The face was wrong—it was vaguely human but with a flattened nose and a protruding jaw, more like a primate than a man. It was utterly still, its eyes closed, yet I could see the faint rise and fall of its chest.

I lowered the phone, my heart thudding. The foot of the bed was empty. I raised the phone again—the figure was there, as clear as day. I watched through the screen, mesmerized, as it shifted slightly, a gurgling sound escaping its throat, not Sam’s snore. The realization hit me: the snoring wasn’t Sam. It was this thing.

I scrambled off the bed, my hand shaking. I backed out of the room, stumbled into the living room, and slammed the door. Sam stirred, mumbling something, but I couldn’t respond. I stood there, staring at the closed door, my mind racing. Was it a trick of the light? A glitch in the camera? But no, it was too distinct, too real.

I forced myself to look again. I cracked the door open, just enough to see the bed. Sam was still asleep, but the figure was gone. No—wait, my phone was still in my hand, still recording. I glanced at the screen: the figure was now sitting up, its head turned toward me, its eyes open—black, glistening pools. A slow smile spread across its lips, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth.

I dropped the phone, but the image burned into my mind. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and returned, heart pounding. I threw the door open, expecting to confront the thing, but the room was empty. Sam was now awake, rubbing his eyes, asking what was wrong. I could only point at the foot of the bed, but there was nothing there.

I showed him the video. He laughed, called it a shadow, a trick of the light. But I saw the flicker of fear in his eyes. We watched the video together, and there it was—clear as life—the figure, its smile widening, its hand reaching out toward the camera, pointing at me.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing that face. I drifted off near dawn, only to be jolted awake by a sound from the television in the living room. A low, guttural laugh. I crept to the doorway and saw the TV flickering with static, but in the middle of the screen, a shape was forming—the same figure, now sitting in my armchair, watching me. The laugh grew louder until it stopped, and the figure spoke, its voice like dry leaves: ‘You see me now.’

I didn’t sleep after that. I couldn’t. Every mirror, every screen, every dark corner held the promise of its presence. Sam began to see it too—a fleeting glimpse in the bathroom mirror, a hand in the reflection—but the doctor said it was shared psychosis, nothing more.

Weeks passed. The figure grew bolder. It would appear in the background of our photos, its face pressing closer each time. It started to mimic our movements, a grotesque shadow. And then, one night, I woke to find Sam standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the wall, mumbling, ‘He’s here. He says we’re his.’

I looked at the wall, and there it was—not on the wall, but in the reflection of the wardrobe mirror. It was sitting beside me on the bed, its bony hand resting on my shoulder. I couldn’t move. I could only watch as its mouth opened, a black void, and Sam turned to me, his eyes hollow, his voice a whispered echo: ‘You should have never looked.’

Now I am here, in this room, in the dark. I don’t know where Sam is. The only light is from my phone, and on the screen, I see myself—alone, trembling—but behind me, just out of focus, that figure is always there. It has started to take my shape. It has started to wear my face. And I know, soon, no one will be able to tell us apart.