The Extra Photo

It was supposed to be a normal weekend. My two closest friends, Arjun and Sameer, came over to my place after years. We hadn’t hung out together since college, and nostalgia hit hard. The evening was full of silly jokes, old stories, and the kind of laughter that makes your stomach ache.

Around midnight, Sameer suggested we take a group photo, “For old times’ sake.”

I pulled out my phone and balanced it on the bookshelf. The three of us huddled together on the couch. Arjun threw his arm over my shoulder, Sameer grinned like always, and I clicked the timer. Flash. Perfect.

We didn’t even check the photo then—we were too busy chatting until sleep claimed us.

The next morning, sunlight poured in through the curtains. My phone buzzed, and half-asleep, I opened the gallery to see the photo. At first glance, it looked fine. But then my blood ran cold.

There weren’t three people in the picture. There were four.

Right behind us—slightly out of focus—stood a man.

His face was pale, stretched unnaturally, like the skin was too tight. His eyes were wide, empty black hollows, and his mouth curved into the faintest grin.

I froze. “Guys… wake up.” My voice cracked.

Arjun groaned. Sameer rubbed his eyes. I shoved the phone at them.

“What the hell…” Arjun muttered. Sameer tried to laugh it off. “Maybe some glitch?”

But no amount of joking could mask the unease spreading in the room.

We had locked the door last night. No one else had come in.

Sameer zoomed into the photo. The man’s hand rested lightly on Arjun’s shoulder. Not just standing behind us—touching us.

“Delete it,” Arjun snapped. “Delete it right now.”

I did. But when I reopened the gallery, the photo was still there. My phone refused to erase it.

The rest of the day felt heavy. None of us laughed. None of us even spoke much. By evening, they both left early, giving flimsy excuses. Honestly, I didn’t blame them.

That night, I kept the lights on. Sleep wouldn’t come. Around 2 a.m., I heard a click. Like the sound of my phone’s camera shutter.

I grabbed the phone from the table. The gallery app was open. A new photo had been added.

It was me—sleeping.

And right beside me on the bed was that same man, his grin wider now, his hollow eyes staring into the lens.

My hands shook as I dropped the phone.

The next morning, I called Arjun and Sameer, desperate to hear their voices. But Arjun’s number was unreachable. Sameer’s phone rang twice before a woman answered.

“This is Sameer’s sister,” she said softly. “Who is this?”

I told her my name.

Her voice cracked. “You must not know. Sameer passed away yesterday. Heart attack. He just… he just collapsed.”

I couldn’t breathe. My chest tightened. Yesterday? But I saw him leave my house. I talked to him.

My legs went weak. My thoughts spiraled. The photo. The fourth figure.

I rushed to check my gallery again, praying it was gone, praying it was all some twisted dream.

But there it was.

The same cursed photo of the three of us—except now, the stranger’s grin had widened into something grotesque. And this time, Sameer’s face was blurred. Almost… erased.

I tried to delete it again. Failed.

Another sound behind me. Click.

I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming.

The man from the photo stood in the corner of my room, phone in hand, smiling.

And then the flash went off.