Follower
(This short horror story was originally supposed to be for Prose’s monthly challenge, but clearly I didn’t read the instructions very specifically. Ah, well! Enjoy!)
***
My phone lit up.
I stood beside a pan of sizzling oil, chopping bell peppers on my mom’s lime green cutting board. Slicing the last pepper with satisfying shhing!, I dropped Mom’s chef’s knife and glanced at my phone.
10 Instagram Notifications
That was weird. I definitely hadn’t posted anything today. Ah, well. People probably just realized how good I looked in my old tournament photos.
I scooted the knife off to the side and started dumping enchilada sauce into a bowl of tofu. One more glance at the peppers –– hell, yeah. Now that was an aesthetic. I stopped to take a picture.
Once I’d gotten the lighting just so, and done a little editing for good measure, I opened up Instagram to post the final product.
Run like a beast, eat like a feast, I captioned it. Since track season had started last week, I had to rep my sport.
As I posted the photo, though, something caught my eye –– another post. One from today.
“Uuh . . .”
I tapped on the picture –– a photo of my house, situated at the end of the cul de sac. Posted ten minutes ago.
Okay, that was weird . . . I switched from instagram to texts, and typed a quick message to my best friend, Tam: You pranking me?
A minute later, Tam’s reply popped up on my screen: u mean instagram?
Then another: I thougt u were doing a prank
Nope, I wrote back.
I thought hard for a second. Tam was my only friend in the neighborhood –– as far as I knew, they were the only highschooler in the neighborhood. Or at least, besides . . .
u think its Hunter? Tam messaged, echoing my thoughts.
Probably, I replied. Yeah . . . yeah, that had to be it. The creep was still mad at me for telling coach he shouldn’t be one of our new sprinters –– which was totally true. Hunter didn’t exactly work well with others, or really socialize at all. Plus, he ran slow. He shouldn’t blame me for being honest.
Loud hissing distracted me from my phone. I whirled around.
“Shit!”
I lunged for the burning vegetables and snatched the pan off the stovetop, but the damage was done. Great. I glanced at the knife and cutting board, then at the clock.
“Takeout,” I decided.
A few minutes later, I’d ordered vegan wings off a delivery app. I started to drop my phone –– but that same second, the screen lit up again.
27 Instagram Notifications
I opened the app, a little nervously. It was stupid, but Hunter’s prank was really getting to me . . . I kept trying to understand how he got my login information, and why . . .
I looked at my profile, and blinked.
Another post. My house, right out front.
I strode out of the kitchen, passing three tall windows and glancing involuntarily out each one. In the living room, I squinted out another window (my parents were super into natural lighting these days). No one there.
“Dammit, Hunter,” I muttered.
Okay –– no. I wouldn’t let him psych me out. I flipped back to instagram, snapped another picture (this time of my own face), and captioned it: So those house pics arent mine. Account got hacked?
There. Hunter wanted to play stupid games, I’d play back.
I crashed in the living room while I waited for my food, turning on Netflix to pass the time. I opted for an original comedy –– not because I was scared or anything. Just annoyed.
For a little while, I was able to zone out and forget how irritating tonight had been. The smell of burned peppers issued from the kitchen, reminding me that I’d have to do the dishes later (and probably scrape charred vegetable crust from that pan). Mom and Dad would be home from their office party soon, and yell at me for getting food with their credit card number. Normal stuff.
My phone lit up.
I glanced at the screen. Thirty notifications from instagram, along with a text from Tam: whats going on???
With a sinking feeling, I opened instagram again. Ice rolled through my chest.
A post from one minute ago –– me on my couch, watching TV. Right outside the closest window.
Brrng!
“AAH!”
A shrill noise sent me stumbling to my feet –– the doorbell. Only the doorbell. I tried to slow my heartbeat down to normal speeds, but no luck. I was so freaked out, I didn’t even bother feeling embarrassed about the super unmanly shriek I’d just released.
Everything’s fine, stupid, I told myself. Calm down.
I went to the front door, sort of wishing I hadn’t opted for contact-free delivery. Seeing another person being would have reminded me I wasn’t living in a horror movie. People pulled pranks. Guys got jealous when you ran faster than them.
Creak. I slid the door open. Outside, night had fallen over the street, drenching everything in darkness. Wishing our cul de sac had streetlights, I quickly snatched the delivery bag and slammed the door shut again.
As my fingers fumbled over the lock, my phone lit up. I grabbed it off the couch’s armrest and opened instagram. My stomach backflipped.
A new picture: me, leaning out my front door to get my food.
My backflipping stomach was starting up a whole gymnastics routine. This was getting too weird. Police –– I could call the ––
My phone lit up. Another picture: Me looking at my phone, right through the window. For the first time, this one was captioned.
Coming In
My hands went numb. I almost dropped my phone.
Several texts popped up on my screen in rapid succession, from Tam and other friends.
Dude, what’s wrong with you?
stop!!!
This isnt funy ok??
Shaking, I looked out the window where the picture had been taken. Too dark. Dammit ––
My phone lit up.
This one wasn’t me –– it was a hand holding a hammer. A huge hand, with bad calluses and chipped fingernails. The caption read: Knock Knock
Something inside me seemed to tilt. That wasn’t Hunter’s hand.
This was somebody else.
My brain kicked into red alert. Head for the garage –– no, too close to that window. Front door –– still too close –– shit ––
Out of options, I bolted up the stairs. My legs trembled underneath me and I tripped again and again, thumping my elbows against the walls, my stomach on the hard stair edges, my chin on the wood panels ––
From downstairs, a horrible noise filled the house –– shattering glass.
“No, no, no ––”
Without thinking, I ran into my bedroom and threw myself into the closet. For an instant, darkness swallowed me. Then my phone lit up. Clutching it in my hands like a lifeline, I stared at the screen.
The next picture had appeared: that same hand, now inside, holding my abandoned chef’s knife. Another caption accompanied it.
Got you.
When the screen went black, I still hadn’t moved a muscle.
Everything sounded louder in the closet. My own breathing might as well have been screaming. There was another sound too, a much worse one . . . wood creaking on the stairs . . .
Footsteps . . . Down the hall . . . into my parents’ room . . .
My room.
The heavy, slow steps shuffled through the door and towards my bed. Inside the closet, I held my breath and shook. My heart thudded against my ribcage. I couldn’t see a thing –– but hopefully, this meant they couldn’t see me.
My phone lit up.
Everything inside me seemed to vanish. Numbly, I glanced at the screen –– at the dark outline of my own closet, posted with another caption.
Found you.