“The Polaroids” is a Scary Story written by Khadija Mohsin. It is published on Storyious, the largest story-writing platform.
The first time Enola found the photograph, she laughed.
She’d woken up groggy and disoriented, the early light barely seeping through her bedroom curtains. When her hand slid under the pillow it brushed against something cool and glossy; she thought it was a receipt or maybe one of the birthday cards her friends had tucked under her pillow a week earlier as a joke.
Instead, it was a Polaroid.
And in the photo, she was asleep in her bed. Her head tilted slightly to the side. The angle was strange—low and close to the bed as though whoever had taken it was crouched right beside her.
She stared at it for a long time, the laughter fading as unease crept in when she realized there was no camera in her apartment. She wasn’t even sure who still used Polaroids. And yet, there it was—a crisp, vivid image of her own slumbering face.
She told herself it was a prank. Her roommate, Audrey, was always pulling harmless stunts, trying to make her laugh. But when she asked Audrey about it over breakfast, her friend frowned.
“A Polaroid? No, that’s not me,” Audrey said, munching on her toast. “But now I kind of wish it was—that’s a pretty awesome idea.” She smirked, then added, “Ah, but I don’t even own a Polaroid camera. Maybe one of the guys at work is secretly a creep?”
“Not funny,” Enola said, shoving the photo into her pocket. She tried to laugh it off, but the knot in her stomach lingered.
That night, she double-checked the locks on the front door and her bedroom window. Her apartment was on the third floor, and there were no fire escapes outside her window. Whoever had taken the picture couldn’t have just wandered in.
Right?
But the next morning, there was another photograph.
This time, it wasn’t under her pillow. It was tucked neatly against the corner of her bedside table, half hidden under her phone. Enola’s hand shook as she picked it up.
It was another image of her sleeping, this time from a higher angle as though the photographer had been standing over her bed. Her face was turned slightly toward the camera, her mouth slightly open, her hand resting on her chest. She looked… vulnerable.
Enola didn’t go to breakfast that morning. She spent the next hour pacing her room, the Polaroids clutched in her hand. She inspected every corner and scanned every inch of the wall for signs. She thought about calling the police, but what would she say? Someone was taking pictures of her, but there was no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a break-in. Her roommate was clueless, and there were no hidden cameras—she’d torn her room apart looking for one.
It had to be Audrey, she decided. There was no other explanation. But when she confronted her roommate that afternoon, Audrey swore on her life it wasn’t her.
“Enola, you’re freaking me out,” Audrey said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Do you want me to sleep in your room tonight?”
Enola hesitated, but the thought of having someone else in the room felt like a balm. Maybe it would stop. Maybe it was all in her head – although the Polaroids were in her pocket – and Audrey’s presence would ground her.
That night, they both slept in Enola’s room. Enola had Audrey lock the door and wedge a chair beneath the doorknob for good measure.
But when Enola woke up, there was another Polaroid.
It was on the pillow next to her head.
Her stomach dropped as she picked it up, her hands trembling. The photograph showed both of them sleeping. The angle was impossibly close, the camera hovering just inches from their faces. Enola’s mouth was slightly open again, while Audrey’s face was turned toward the ceiling, her brow furrowed even in sleep.
Enola shook Audrey awake, her voice cracking as she shoved the Polaroid in her friend’s face. Audrey’s eyes went wide, her sleepiness evaporating in an instant.
“What the hell—” Audrey started, but Enola didn’t give her time to finish.
“We locked the door, Audrey. We locked it, and this still happened. This thing is still happening!”
They spent the day in a kind of stunned paranoia. Audrey stayed home from work to help Enola inspect every corner of the apartment. They checked for hidden cameras again, for cracks in the walls, for vents that could somehow connect to another unit.
Nothing.
“Maybe it’s some kind of… supernatural thing,” Audrey muttered hesitantly as they sat on the living room floor, surrounded by the three Polaroids.
Enola scoffed, though the thought had already crossed her mind. It was easier than imagining that someone had found a way into her locked apartment three nights in a row.
“I’m staying somewhere else tonight,” Enola said finally.
She packed an overnight bag and checked herself into a cheap motel on the other side of town. The room smelled faintly of mildew, but the lock on the door was solid, and the windows were reinforced. She felt safe for the first time in days.
But when she woke up the next morning, the Polaroid was waiting for her.
It was under her pillow again.
Enola’s breath came in shallow gasps as she stared at the photograph. This time, the image was different. It wasn’t just her sleeping.
There was someone in the photo with her.
A figure stood at the foot of the bed, its silhouette barely visible in the dim light of the motel room. It was tall, impossibly thin, its face obscured by shadow. But the longer she stared at the photograph, the more Enola felt like the thing was looking back at her.
She threw the Polaroid across the room and scrambled out of bed. Her heart was pounding, her skin clammy. Hurriedly, she grabbed her bag and left the motel without even brushing her teeth.
By the time she got home, Audrey was waiting for her, pacing the living room.
“Enola, you’re scaring me,” Audrey said, her voice rising. “This isn’t normal. You need help. We need help. Maybe we should call—”
Audrey stopped mid-sentence, her face going pale. She was looking at something over Enola’s shoulder.
“What?” Enola asked, spinning around.
There was nothing there.
But when she turned back to Audrey, her friend was backing away, her face a mask of fear.
“Audrey, what is it?” Enola demanded, panic rising in her throat.
“You—your shadow,” Audrey whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s wrong.”
Enola turned slowly, her eyes falling to the floor. Her shadow stretched across the hardwood, long and distorted, its arms too thin, its fingers too sharp. It twitched unnaturally, almost as if it were moving on its own.
A cold realization washed over her.
It wasn’t someone taking the photographs.
It was ‘something’.
Something that had been with her all along.
That night, Enola burned the Polaroids. She watched the flames consume them, the edges curling and blackening until there was nothing left but ash.
But when she woke up the next morning, the Polaroid was there.
This time, it wasn’t under her pillow.
It was in her hand.
And in the photo, she wasn’t sleeping. She was staring directly into the camera.
And smiling…
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