The lost phone

The Lost Phone: The Next Picture Is You

It was nearly dusk when Emma spotted the phone. It sat alone on a bench under a flickering park lamp, next to a scarf fluttering like it had been left in haste. There was no one else in sight, just the low hum of insects and the distant whirr of traffic.

She paused, then picked it up.

The screen lit up at her touch. No passcode. No wallpaper. Just a strange message in pale gray letters:

**“If you found this, it’s already started.”**

Emma frowned. *A prank?*

She swiped up. The home screen was nearly empty—no apps, no time display. Just one icon: **Gallery**.

Her thumb hovered. Something about it felt... wrong. But curiosity won.

She tapped.

Hundreds of photos. Most showed a woman—mid-thirties, dark hair, sharp eyes—always slightly turned from the lens. Sometimes smiling. Sometimes blurred. At first glance, they looked like selfies. But something was off.

In many of them, the woman didn’t seem aware she was being photographed.

Emma clicked one image at random and felt her stomach twist.

It was a photo of the very bench she now stood beside.

She turned around. The angle was perfect—taken from behind a nearby tree.

The timestamp on the photo: *6:42 p.m.*

Emma glanced at her watch.

*6:42 p.m.*

Her mouth went dry.

She flipped to the next image. Her breath caught.

It was a picture of her. Right now. Wearing the same coat. Same confused expression. Taken from somewhere close.

She spun, heart racing, eyes scanning every shadow. Bushes, benches, trees. Someone had just taken that picture. Someone was watching her.

The phone buzzed in her hand.

**Unknown Caller**

She hesitated, then answered. “Hello?”

A voice, raspy and distant: “You shouldn’t have opened it.”

Emma froze. “Who is this?”

Silence.

Then a soft click. Disconnected.

She stared at the phone. Her reflection shimmered on the dark screen, warped and uneasy.

She tapped again—another folder had appeared in the gallery, titled **“Recordings.”**

Only one video.

She pressed play.

The same woman from the photos appeared, sitting in a dim room. Her eyes flicked nervously between the lens and the door behind her.

“My name is Maya,” she whispered. “If you’re watching this, I’m probably gone. Or worse.”

She leaned closer, her voice trembling.

“I thought I was just being paranoid at first. The photos... they started appearing one by one. Of me. Then of places I hadn’t been to yet. Then of other people. They vanished. I found the phone on a train. Just sitting there. And I opened it.”

Her breath hitched.

“He doesn’t like when you delete the photos. Or turn off the phone. That’s when he gets closer.”

The screen began glitching, flickering with static.

“Don’t let it take a photo of you at night. That’s when he marks you.”

Then darkness.

Emma stood frozen. Her apartment was less than a ten-minute walk, but suddenly the path home felt miles away.

She shut the phone off.

Or tried to.

It stayed on.

Another buzz. A new photo appeared in the gallery.

Emma’s apartment door. Taken from just down the hallway.

She staggered backward.

The next photo: inside her building lobby. The timestamp read *6:47 p.m.*—the current time.

The next one: Her apartment door. Closer.

She ran.

---

When Emma burst through her apartment door, she locked it behind her, every bolt and latch. She drew the blinds. Checked every room.

She was alone.

The phone buzzed again.

No new calls. Just one message, from **Unknown**:

**“Look outside.”**

Emma’s feet moved before her mind caught up.

She crept to the window and parted the curtain by an inch.

Across the street, under a broken streetlight, stood a figure.

Tall. Still. Watching.

Another buzz. Another photo.

It was her.

Standing at the window.

Taken from the street.

She dropped the phone. It hit the floor but didn’t break. The screen stayed lit. A countdown had begun.

**00:01:59**

Emma stared.

Two minutes.

For what?

She grabbed her keys and bolted from the apartment, taking only the phone with her.

---

She ran until her legs burned. Down side streets. Past blinking storefronts. Through alleys washed in yellow light. She didn’t stop until she reached the police station.

Breathless, she slammed the phone onto the front desk.

“There’s someone following me,” she gasped. “This phone—it’s tracking me.”

The officer gave her a strange look, then picked it up.

No photos.

No videos.

Just a normal lock screen. The clock reading *7:03 p.m.*

No apps. No message. No gallery.

“It’s just a phone, ma’am.”

Emma blinked. “No… there were pictures. Dozens. Of me.”

The officer held it out. “Look.”

Her fingers trembled as she took it.

A single image remained.

A new one.

The police station lobby.

Taken from behind her.

She turned slowly.

The front door swung open.