Most houses creak and groan at night as they settle down, writhing gently until their timbers feel right again. I used to think my house clicked instead of creaked, sharp fluttery creaks, until I found the first photo of me sleeping placed on my pillow.
Every day for the past week photos of me have been appearing round the house. Now I know the clicks are a camera I can't see and that something is always close to me, watching me, and now it wants me to know I am being seen.
I've been trying to see what it wants, what I can do to get it to leave. The priest I begged to come over just told me the house is fine and that I'm loved by God, etc, but it's only made things worse. I turn my back and suddenly there's a photo of me on the coffee table with my back turned.
The paper is always warm, freshly printed somehow, from somewhere.
Every day for the past week photos of me have been appearing round the house. Now I know the clicks are a camera I can't see and that something is always close to me, watching me, and now it wants me to know I am being seen.
I've been trying to see what it wants, what I can do to get it to leave. The priest I begged to come over just told me the house is fine and that I'm loved by God, etc, but it's only made things worse. I turn my back and suddenly there's a photo of me on the coffee table with my back turned.
The paper is always warm, freshly printed somehow, from somewhere.
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