The Polaroid Curse

Lila found the weathered Polaroid camera in her grandmother’s attic, its leather case cracked but the lens still shiny. The note tucked inside read: “Every photo steals a piece of you.” She scoffed, snapping a test shot of her bedroom wall. The image developed slowly—too slowly—and in the corner, a thin, gray shadow curled like smoke, something no human eye could see.
That night, she took a selfie. The flash burned bright, and when the photo emerged, the shadow loomed behind her, its outline sharpening into a hunched figure with too-long fingers. Lila’s breath hitched; she’d been alone in the room.
The next morning, the shadow in the first photo had grown, now pressing against the wall’s edge. She tried to burn the pictures, but they wouldn’t catch fire. Panicked, she took a photo of the empty hallway. This time, the shadow stood at the end, face hidden by a ragged hood, hand outstretched as if reaching for the camera.
By dusk, Lila noticed a chill whenever she held the camera. She snapped one last photo—of her own reflection in the mirror. The image revealed her face, pale and strained, but where her eyes should be, there were only dark hollows. Behind her, the shadow grinned, its mouth a jagged line.
When her sister found her, Lila was staring at the photo, unblinking. The camera lay beside her, its lens fogged. In the mirror, a faint gray shape mimicked Lila’s frozen posture, and the Polaroid in her hand now showed only the shadow—wearing her clothes, smiling.