There is a locked room in my house that was not there yesterday. Inside the room was a photograph of me sleeping taken last night

I have lived in this house for six years. I know every crack in the ceiling, every squeaky floorboard, every door that sticks in the summer heat. So when I woke up this morning and walked down the hallway, I noticed immediately that something was wrong.

There was a door where the wall used to be.

Not a new door , I mean it looked old. Worn brass handle, dark wood frame with scratches at the base like something had been dragged against it for years. My first thought that I was still dreaming. I pinched myself, because yeah, I am that person. It hurt. I was awake.

I stood there for what felt like ten minutes just staring at it. My coffee went cold in my hand. Then I tried the handle. Locked!!

That should have been the end of it. A locked door I could not explain. I should have called someone, a friend, a landlord, anyone. Instead I went and got a bobby pin like some kind of horror movie protagonist who deserves everything that is about to happen to them.

It opened easier than it should have.

The room inside was small, maybe eight feet by eight feet, no windows. A bare bulb dangling from the ceiling that flickered on when I entered, like it had been waiting. The walls were covered in what I first thought was peeling wallpaper until I got closer and realized they were photographs. Hundreds of them. Printed on thin paper, pinned edge to edge so not an inch of the wall showed through.

Every single photograph was of me.

Me at the grocery store. Me jogging in the park. Me sitting at my desk at work. Me on a first date three years ago that did not go anywhere. Me at my mother's funeral. Me crying in my car in a parking garage after a phone call I tried hard to forget.

I was shaking by the time I reached the center of the room. On the floor was a single polaroid, face down, set perfectly in the middle like it had been placed there deliberately. I picked it up.

It was me. In my bed. Asleep. Last night. I could tell because I was wearing the same grey shirt I'd fallen asleep in. The timestamp in the corner read 3:17 AM.

The photograph was still slightly warm.

I ran out of the house. I'm writing this from my car in the driveway because I don't know where else to go. My hands are still shaking. I don't know who has been watching me. I don't know how this room appeared. I don't know what to do.

But the thing that's keeping me from driving away, the thing I can't stop thinking about, is that in the photograph of me sleeping, there was a shadow in the corner of my room that wasn't cast by anything I own.

And it was standing very, very still.

UPDATE: I'm going back inside. I found a note under my windshield wiper. It just says "you weren't supposed to open it yet." I'll update if I can.

My story is intriguing, isn't?