Matt

There were twelve photos.

All of me.

Sleeping.

Different positions, different angles.

The lighting changed slightly in each one, like they'd been taken over the course of hours.

In one, my mouth was half open, a line of drool on the pillow.

In another, my arm was flung above my head.

In every single photo, hovering in the darkest corner of my room, was a tall thin shape.

Its eyes reflected the phone's screen light, twin pale orbs.

The timestamp on the first photo was 12.17 a.m.

The timestamp on the last was 3.02 a.m.

I checked my door, still locked from the inside, the chain still latched.

I checked the windows, closed, latched, no signs of tampering.

My phone had been on my nightstand the whole time, far enough away that I would have had to sit up and reach for it, which I clearly hadn't, judging by the photos.

I deleted them, I don't know why.

Instinct, maybe.

As if getting rid of the evidence would somehow get rid of what they showed.

It didn't matter.

The next night, there were eight more.

I hadn't heard the phone buzz.