Elias checked the metadata. The "Date Taken" field was empty, but the "Modified" date was listed as . He froze. It was currently 2026.

He tried to delete the file. The computer hovered at 99% for three hours before the blue screen of death claimed the system. When he rebooted, wasn't just in the folder anymore; it was his desktop wallpaper. He pulled the plug on the computer. The screen stayed on.

Over the next few days, Elias became obsessed. He ran the image through enhancement software, trying to sharpen the figure at the end of the hall. With every pass, the software didn't just clear the blur; it seemed to add detail that wasn't there before. The figure was wearing a coat exactly like the one hanging in Elias’s hallway. The watch on the figure’s wrist had a cracked face—the same crack Elias had made on his own watch just that morning.

When he first clicked it, his monitor flickered. The image that appeared was a low-resolution shot of a hallway. It looked like a hospital, but the lighting was a sickly, bruised purple. At the end of the hall stood a figure that was slightly out of focus, as if the camera had struggled to lock onto its dimensions.

It was a high-resolution photo of an empty hallway, perfectly still, waiting for the next person to click. AI responses may include mistakes. Learn more

He looked down the long corridor toward the exit. The perspective seemed to stretch, the walls elongating like a pull-tab animation. At the far end, he saw a camera on a tripod, its lens pointed directly at him.