The Sixth Photo

The Sixth Photo

by shayan

We didn’t mean to take a disposable camera. It was a last-minute addition, grabbed from the dollar store at the edge of town. One of those decisions you don’t think about—“This could be fun,” Anna had said, holding it up like a trophy, “Something retro.”

We were four: Anna, Mikey, Jules, and me.

The campsite was nothing special. It sat by a small lake with water the color of melted pewter. There were rumors about it—something about a drowned girl, a missing hunter, a local legend whispered in the kind of small towns that cling to myth like moss. But we were city kids. Stories didn’t scare us. Not really.

We set up tents. Drank too much. Laughed too loud. The camera passed between us like a secret, clicking photos of the fire, of Jules mid-scream during a ghost story, of Mikey dancing like a fool in the moonlight. Five shots in total.

That night, Anna screamed in her sleep. I remember it clearly because I was awake when she did. The sound tore through the trees like something wild, something ancient. She sat up, gasping, said she didn’t remember the dream, just that she’d felt watched.

By morning, we were all blaming the whiskey.

When we got back to town, the camera sat on my dresser for three weeks before I remembered to develop it. An impulse, really. I dropped it off at the drugstore and forgot about it until I got the call: “Your photos are ready.”

I picked them up during my lunch break, sitting cross-legged on my bed with the little envelope in hand.

The first five were exactly as I remembered.

Jules holding a marshmallow in the fire, her eyes wide and grinning.

Mikey mid-jump, blurring with movement under a sky full of stars.

Anna holding her hands up like claws, pretending to be a bear.

The four of us together, arms tangled, faces bright and slightly drunk.

The lake at dusk—calm, glassy, the trees casting long shadows over the water.

Then… the sixth.

It didn’t make sense.

It was a group shot. All four of us again. But we hadn’t taken another one. And certainly not like this.

We were asleep.

That was the first thing I noticed. The four of us, lying in our sleeping bags outside our tents. Not posed. Not smiling. Our faces slack and peaceful.

But someone had clearly taken the photo.

It wasn’t from inside a tent or tilted at an angle. It was centered, perfectly framed, like whoever had held the camera knew exactly what they were doing. The flash must have gone off, but none of us stirred in the picture.

Then I looked closer.

Behind us—in the shadows just beyond the fire pit—stood a figure.

Not a bear. Not a raccoon. Not a trick of the light.

A person. Tall. Thin. Barefoot.

Their face was… wrong. Blurred, smeared like a smudge on wet glass, and yet I could feel the stare. Direct. Cold.

I ran to my laptop and pulled up the digital scan on the drugstore’s site. Zoomed in.

The figure was there, too. Clearer somehow. Closer than I’d thought.

I called the others. Anna answered first, her voice already shaking before I explained. “I saw something that night,” she whispered. “When I screamed. I thought… I thought it was just the dream.”

Mikey tried to laugh it off until I sent him the photo. Then he went quiet. “That’s not real,” he said finally. “Right? That’s a prank. You photoshopped that.”

I didn’t.

Jules never answered my call. She never would. They found her two days later in her apartment, curled up on her bed with the lights on and the windows locked from the inside. No signs of struggle. No cause of death. Just… gone.

The photo was in her hand.

Since then, I’ve dreamed of the sixth photo every night. We’re all sleeping in it, just like before—but each time, the figure is closer.

Last night, he was at Anna’s feet.

I haven’t seen Anna or Mikey in a week. I’ve stopped trying to reach them. My phone rings sometimes, but I don’t answer anymore. I already know what the voice will say.

Tonight, I’m staying awake. I’ve locked every door. Every window. The lights are on. I’ve burned the photo. Deleted the digital copy. But I can feel it anyway.

The pull.

The weight.

Something wants to finish what it started.

There’s only one shot left on the new disposable camera sitting by my bed.

And I think… I think it’s waiting to take it.