Part 3 The Man in the Photo

Nobody replied in the family group chat after my sister sent the baby monitor clip.

My dad finally texted back twenty minutes later.

“Stop joking about stuff like this.”

But my sister swore she wasn’t joking.

She sent the video.

The rocking chair moved exactly like she described.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

Then the baby sat up in the crib, smiling at something we couldn’t see.

And waved.

The worst part wasn’t the waving.

It was what happened right after.

The baby looked directly at the camera.

Right at us.

And said very clearly:

“Hi again, dad.”

My dad called her immediately.

He kept asking her to rewind it.

Play it again.

Play it again.

Finally he asked something strange.

“Is there… another photo on your phone?”

My sister said no.

But when she checked her camera roll again, there was a new picture.

None of us had seen it before.

It wasn’t taken in her house.

It wasn’t taken at my dad’s house.

It was taken in my apartment.

My sister has never been to my apartment.

But there it was.

My living room.

My couch.

My coffee table.

And me.

Sleeping.

The photo was taken from the hallway, like someone standing just inside my front door.

My sister started typing in the chat.

Then she stopped.

Then she typed again.

“Look behind him.”

I zoomed in.

Behind my couch, reflected in the dark TV screen, was the same man.

Grey hoodie.

Head tilted slightly.

Watching me sleep.

Holding his phone up.

Taking the picture.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Because I checked my own camera roll.

And the exact same photo was on my phone too.

Taken at 3:12 AM.

The same time as the baby monitor.

I live alone.

My doors were locked.

My security camera never recorded anyone entering.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part came the next morning.

My dad called us.

His voice sounded like he hadn’t slept.

He said he woke up to a notification on his phone.

A photo memory.

“On this day — Yesterday.”

Which made no sense.

Because the photo in the memory wasn’t taken yesterday.

It was the birthday dinner photo.

The first one.

But when my dad opened it again…

Something had changed.

The reflection in the microwave was clearer now.

The man wasn’t just standing there anymore.

He was closer.

Standing right behind my dad.

His hand resting on the back of my dad’s chair.

And the phone he was holding…

The screen was visible again.

But the image on the screen wasn’t the dinner.

It was a new picture.

Taken from somewhere inside the house.

Pointed at the front door.

Like someone waiting for it to open.

Then my dad said something that made all of us feel sick.

He said he went downstairs that morning to make coffee.

And when he passed the dining room…

The chair at the head of the table was pulled out.

The same chair from the photo.

And sitting on the table in front of it…

Was his phone.

Open to the camera.

With a new photo preview ready.

The preview wasn’t of the dining room.

It was of the staircase.

Pointed up toward the hallway.

Like someone had just taken a picture of the top step.

My dad lives alone.

But while we were still on the phone…

He suddenly stopped talking.

We heard him breathing.

Then whispering.

Very quietly.

“Why is someone standing upstairs?”

And the line went dead.

Five minutes later he sent one last message.

No explanation.

Just a photo.

The camera was pointed at the top of the stairs.

The hallway was empty.

But at the very end of the hall…

There was a framed picture hanging on the wall.

A family photo from years ago.

And in the glass reflection of that frame…

You could see the man in the grey hoodie.

Holding his phone.

Taking another picture.

And the screen of his phone showed something none of us expected.

It showed me.

Standing in my apartment.

Right behind my couch.

Looking straight into the camera.

But I was smiling.

And I wasn’t holding my phone.

I was holding his.