Img_0430.mov

I hit play. The footage was shaky, clearly filmed by someone running. It was night, and the only light came from a flickering flashlight held by the person behind the camera. The audio was heavy with ragged, panicked breathing and the sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot.

"I don't think it's following anymore," a girl’s voice whispered. She sounded young, maybe seventeen. IMG_0430.MOV

The camera spun around, the flashlight beam cutting through the dense woods. For a split second, the light caught something tall and pale standing behind a birch tree. It wasn't a person. It was too thin, its limbs segmented like an insect's, and its eyes—if they were eyes—reflected the light like polished chrome. I hit play

The girl gasped, and the running started again. The footage became a blur of dark branches and strobe-like flashes of light. Then, suddenly, the girl tripped. The camera tumbled through the air, landing face-up in the dirt. The audio was heavy with ragged, panicked breathing

I looked at the date stamp in the file info:

The frame remained still for the final ten seconds. In the distance, the girl’s footsteps stopped abruptly. There was no scream. Just a soft, wet click-click-click sound that grew louder as it approached the lens. A pale, needle-like finger entered the frame, reaching down toward the phone. The video cut to black.

I found the phone in the "untested" bin of a dusty thrift store on the edge of town—a cracked iPhone 6s with a faded sticker of a sunflower on the back. For five dollars, I figured if I couldn't fix it, I’d at least have some spare parts.