The girl in the photo on her wall blinked.

I swear she did. I was sprawled on my bed, scrolling through my phone, half-dead from a long shift at the coffee shop, when I caught it out of the corner of my eye. Just a flicker, like she was trying to get my attention.

I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen, heart doing that weird skip it does when you think you saw something but aren’t sure. I mean, it’s a photo. Photos don’t blink. That’s not a thing. Right?

The picture’s been up there forever, tacked to the wall above my desk. It’s one of those Polaroids, all faded and grainy, from some thrift store haul I did last summer. Found it in a shoebox full of old snapshots, buried under some creepy porcelain dolls and a stack of yellowed postcards.

This girl, maybe ten or eleven, with pigtails and a frilly dress, standing in front of a carousel. She’s got this smile, not quite happy but not sad either, like she’s posing because someone told her to. I don’t know why I kept it. It just felt… important, somehow. Like it was meant to find me.

I shook my head, told myself I was being stupid. Too many late nights, too much caffeine. I glanced at the photo again, and she was just… still. Same smile, same flat, glossy stare. But now I couldn’t unsee it. That blink. Was it a blink? Maybe it was just my brain playing tricks, like when you think you hear your name in a crowded room.

I set my phone down, rubbed my eyes, and tried to laugh it off. “Get a grip, Mia,” I muttered. But my voice sounded too loud in the quiet room.

I got up, walked over to the desk, and leaned in close. The girl’s eyes were dark, almost black, and the longer I stared, the more it felt like she was staring back. Not just at me, but into me, like she knew something I didn’t.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of the Polaroid, and—okay, this is gonna sound insane, but the air around it felt cold. Not like a draft, but like the photo itself was sucking the warmth out of the room. I yanked my hand back, heart pounding again. “Nope,” I said, backing away. “Nope, nope, nope.”

I tried to go back to my phone, scroll through some dumb memes, anything to shake the feeling. But every few seconds, my eyes darted back to the photo. It was like she was waiting for me to look.

I thought about taking it down, shoving it in a drawer, but that felt… wrong. Like I’d be disrespecting her or something. God, why was I even thinking like that? It’s a piece of paper, not a person.

I grabbed my laptop instead, figured I’d Google something like “haunted Polaroid” or “photos that move.” I know, I know, it’s ridiculous, but I was spooked, okay? The search results were a mess—ghost stories, urban legends, some grainy YouTube videos about cursed objects. Nothing useful.

But then I found this one forum post, buried in some paranormal subreddit, about old photos acting as “anchors.” Like, sometimes a person’s energy gets trapped in an image, especially if something bad happened when it was taken. The post was vague, no details, just some guy saying he burned a photo after it “watched him sleep.” Great. Super comforting.

I slammed the laptop shut, harder than I meant to. My room felt smaller now, the walls too close. I kept thinking about that carousel in the background of the photo. It looked familiar, like one I’d seen at the county fair when I was a kid. The kind with chipped paint and creepy organ music that always felt a little off.

I tried to remember if I’d ever seen a girl like her there, but my memory’s fuzzy. I was probably too busy sneaking cotton candy or dodging my mom’s lectures to notice.

I stood up, paced a little, then stopped in front of the photo again. “Okay,” I said, like I was talking to her. “If you’re, like, a ghost or whatever, just… don’t mess with me, alright? I’m having a rough week.” I laughed, but it came out shaky. I felt like an idiot, talking to a picture, but part of me was waiting for her to answer.

She didn’t, obviously. Just kept smiling that weird, not-quite-right smile.

Then my phone buzzed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Just a text from my coworker, asking if I could cover her shift tomorrow. I typed back a quick “sure” and tried to focus on that, on normal stuff, but my eyes kept sliding back to the wall. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off. Like the air was heavier now, or the light was dimmer. I checked the lamp—still on, still bright. But the shadows in the corners of the room looked sharper, like they were listening.

I decided to take the photo down. Not throw it away, just… move it. I grabbed a pair of scissors to cut the tape holding it to the wall, but when I got close, I swear I heard something. A hum, low and faint, like the sound of a carousel starting up. I froze, scissors halfway to the tape.

The hum stopped, but now my hands were shaking. “This is stupid,” I whispered, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Instead, I backed up, sat on the edge of my bed, and stared at the photo from a distance. The girl’s smile seemed wider now, or maybe that was just my imagination. I thought about calling my friend Jess, but what was I gonna say? “Hey, I think my thrift store Polaroid is haunted”? She’d laugh me out of the group chat.

Still, I needed to do something. I grabbed a notebook and started writing down everything I remembered about where I got the photo. The thrift store was that creepy one on Maple Street, the one with the flickering neon sign. I’d gone there on a whim, looking for cheap decor for my new apartment. The shoebox was in the back, near a pile of dusty records. I hadn’t even looked at the other photos in it, just grabbed this one because it felt… special.

I stopped writing, my pen hovering over the page. Special. That word again. Why had I thought that? I didn’t even like old photos—too much history, too many strangers’ lives I didn’t care about. But this one had pulled me in, like it was waiting for me to find it.

I glanced up, and—oh, hell no. The girl’s head was tilted now. Just a little, barely noticeable, but I knew it wasn’t like that before. I dropped the notebook, my breath catching in my throat.

“Okay, no, this isn’t happening,” I said, louder this time, like I was trying to convince myself. I stood up, grabbed my jacket, and bolted for the door. I didn’t care if it was midnight or if I looked like a lunatic. I wasn’t staying in that room with… whatever that was.

I locked the door behind me, my hands fumbling with the keys, and practically ran down the stairs to my car.

Outside, the air was cold, sharp against my skin. I sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, trying to figure out what to do next. Go to Jess’s place? Crash at a diner? Burn the damn photo?

My phone buzzed again, and I flinched, but it was just another text. I ignored it. All I could think about was that girl, her dark eyes, the way they seemed to follow me even now, even out here.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually, I started the car. I drove to the thrift store, not because I had a plan, but because it felt like the only place that might have answers. The neon sign was off, the windows dark, but I parked anyway, staring at the building like it might tell me something.

I thought about that shoebox, the other photos I hadn’t looked at. Maybe they held a clue—about the girl, the carousel, why she was… doing whatever she was doing.

I didn’t go in. I couldn’t. The store looked wrong in the dark, like it was holding its breath. Instead, I drove home, my hands still shaking, promising myself I’d deal with it tomorrow. Take the photo down, burn it, bury it, whatever. But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be that simple. That girl wasn’t just a picture. She was something else, something that had found me. And I had no idea what she wanted.

Esther

@Starlet

In The Frame

Starlet