Marissa found the photograph at a yard sale tucked between old dishes and tarnished jewelry. It was black and white, dated, showing a group of people standing in front of a large country house. But in the far right corner, almost hidden in shadow, stood a woman in a dark dress, her eyes locked with the camera. Unlike the others, she didn’t smile. Marissa couldn’t explain why, but she bought it anyway.

That night, she dreamed of the house in the photo—abandoned and silent, the porch sagging under weight that wasn’t there. She stood outside it, watching a figure move through the windows. When she woke, the photo was on her nightstand, even though she’d left it on the mantel. The woman had moved closer in the frame.

Each night, the dreams grew more vivid. Hallways. Whispers. Cold hands brushing past her in sleep. And each morning, the photo changed. The group of people began to disappear, one by one, until only the woman remained. Now she stood alone, centered in the image, her expression shifting from blank to something else—something eager.

Marissa tried destroying the photo—burning it, soaking it, burying it. Nothing worked. The next morning, it was always back, untouched. She started seeing the woman’s reflection in windows, glimpses of her dress in the corner of her vision. And one night, the woman appeared in her hallway—just standing there. Watching.

The police entered the house days later, after Marissa stopped responding to calls. The house was cold, undisturbed. But on the mantel sat the photo—same house, same black-and-white tone. Only now, the woman wasn’t alone. A second figure had appeared behind her, face half-turned, mouth open in a silent scream.

To be continued…