PART 1 — THE PHOTOGRAPHS
The realization that a stranger was living in my house did not come from a bump in the night. It came from a forgotten roll of film hidden in the bottom of my desk drawer.
I had found it while looking for an old receipt. The roll was wrapped in a faded paper sleeve with one word written across it: BEDROOM. I almost threw it away. Instead, I took it to the camera shop in town.
Two days later, I opened the envelope in my truck. The first photograph showed my bedroom. My bed. My face. Sleeping.
The second showed my face again. Closer. The third showed my hand resting on the blanket. The fourth showed my closed eyes. By the tenth photograph, my stomach was tight.
All thirty-six pictures were of me sleeping. They had been taken from different places and at different times. Some were from beside the bed. One had been taken from the doorway. Another was from directly above my pillow.
The final photograph made my hands shake. In the corner was a bright orange timestamp: 3:00 A.M. — YESTERDAY.
Yesterday.
The photograph had been taken inside my bedroom while I was asleep.
I triple-locked that door every night. One deadbolt. One secondary latch. And a brass chain Sarah had installed years ago because she hated the hallway door rattling in the wind.
I drove home without turning on the radio. The house looked exactly the same. White siding. Blue shutters. Sarah’s rose bushes. Nothing appeared disturbed.
But someone had been inside my bedroom. Someone had stood close enough to photograph my sleeping face.
I checked every window, every door, every closet. Nothing. Then I saw a fresh scratch near the bottom of the bedroom door. It looked as if a metal tool had been slipped against the frame.
My phone rang. It was my son, Mark.
“Dad, don’t use the car this year,” he said.
I frowned. “What car?”
“The Mustang.”
“I wasn’t talking about the Mustang.”
Silence.
Mark finally said, “I know.”
That was the first moment I understood the photographs and my son’s strange warning might be connected.