The moment the transition began, Alex knew something was different.
It wasn't the usual vertigo, the sharp plummet into an unknown life. It was slower this time—dragged, like a film reel unraveling frame by frame. A dragging in the soul, not just the body. Cold clung to his skin, damp and sticky like undeveloped film in a darkroom.
When his eyes opened, he was lying flat on a hardwood floor, dust motes suspended in a beam of pale gray morning light. The room was quiet—eerily so, like the silence after someone has stopped crying. He sat up slowly. His fingers were smaller, thinner. Teenager? Maybe sixteen or seventeen. He wore a rumpled white shirt with ink stains on the sleeves and dark jeans. A leather satchel lay beside him, containing a heavy, vintage camera.
New Role Acquired: Jonah Park, Amateur Photographer.
Objective: Discover the source of the cursed image before your reflection disappears.
Rules:
You may not destroy any photograph once taken.
The camera cannot be discarded.
The image always develops—even if there is no subject.
Timer Initiated: 7 Days.
The message seared across his vision like a sunspot and faded.
Alex ran a hand through his short hair—Jonah's hair—and took a breath. He was in a boy's bedroom, minimalist and old-fashioned. No digital devices. An analog alarm clock ticked faintly on the desk. A stack of photo albums, thick with dust, sat in a wooden box labeled "DO NOT OPEN."
A knock at the door jolted him.
"Jonah?" a woman's voice called gently. "Are you up?"
"Yeah," Alex said automatically.
"I made you toast. It's downstairs when you're ready."
Footsteps retreated.
He waited a full minute before moving again, taking a look at himself in the vanity mirror beside the bed. The reflection looked right—short black hair, dark eyes, plain face—but something about it unsettled him. The mirror glass was warped ever so slightly, enough that his smile looked a fraction too wide.
The camera in the satchel was heavy and ancient—an old Polaroid SX-70, but altered. The lens was rimmed with a dark material that pulsed faintly, and the button felt warm. Alex aimed it absently at the mirror and clicked.
Whrr-click.
The photograph slid out. He waited.
Ten seconds later, the photo darkened with color, developing before his eyes.
Jonah was in the mirror, yes—but behind him, in the corner of the room, was a figure in a long black veil.
Alex whipped around. Nothing. The corner was empty.
The photograph remained the same.
He didn't throw it away—he remembered the rule. Instead, he tucked it into a journal he found in the satchel, beside pages of scribbled photography notes and red pen markings: Don't photograph mirrors. Don't sleep facing the lens. Don't trust the first image.
Downstairs, the kitchen was warm, but silent. A woman—Jonah's mother, presumably—stood at the counter, pouring orange juice.
"You look tired," she said, offering him a toast with jam. "Did you have that dream again?"
Alex blinked. "Uh… yeah."
She nodded, unsurprised. "It's always worse around the anniversary."
"Anniversary?"
She looked at him carefully. "Jonah, are you okay? You've been… different."
"I just didn't sleep well."
She hesitated. "Today's the fifth. You remember what that means."
Alex gave a noncommittal grunt and bit the toast. Sweet and bland. The mother didn't press further, but the way she looked at him suggested she was watching for cracks.
Later that afternoon, school passed in a blur. Jonah—or rather, Alex—kept his head down, camera slung across his chest. It didn't help him blend in. Everyone knew the kid with the weird vintage camera.
"Still snapping ghosts, Park?" a boy jeered as Alex passed.
He didn't respond. He caught his reflection in a hallway window—and for a brief second, saw his mirrored self smile before he did.
Back in Jonah's bedroom after school, Alex combed through the albums in the box marked DO NOT OPEN. They were filled with eerie black-and-white portraits, all taken with the same camera. Faces blurred or scratched out. Some were smiling—others looked caught mid-scream.
The last page was empty except for a caption written in block letters:
THE LAST PHOTOGRAPH IS THE ONLY TRUTH.
The shadows in the room lengthened. He closed the album and reached for the camera again.
Another click. Another shot of the room.
This time, nothing but the bed and the window appeared.
But when he turned to place it in the journal, the photograph had changed. The mirror now held a handprint that wasn't there before—long fingers, as if from the inside of the glass.
That night, Alex dreamed not of screams or darkness, but of endless flashes.
A black room.
Bright white light.
A click.
A shadow figure.
Another click.
Closer.
Another click.
Right behind him.
He woke with a start, drenched in sweat. The camera sat on the desk, pointed directly at the bed.
He hadn't left it that way.
There was a new photograph on the desk.
He flipped it over with shaking fingers.
Jonah—sleeping, face half in shadow. And next to him, a tall woman in a bridal veil, her face hidden. She held the camera.
Alex turned, heart thudding.
No one there.
But in the mirror's warped surface, the woman still stood.