The Rewrite
Chapter 3
I did not touch the photo at first. I couldn't.
The Polaroid sat on my kitchen counter where I had dropped it. The light from above reflected off its shiny surface. It felt like the photo was making fun of me. Every time I walked past it, my fingers shook, but I forced myself not to look. Not yet.
Finding another photo taped to my window was bad enough. But the date on the back was even worse. It said: Tomorrow.
It was impossible. Photos show the past, not the future. But there I was in the picture. I saw my hand on the curtain and my head turned to the side. It was the exact moment I had just lived through. But it wasn't labeled with today's date. It was labeled one day ahead.
I spent the whole night walking back and forth. My nerves felt like tight wires ready to snap. Every sound made me jump. Every creak of the floor or hum of the fridge was terrifying. My apartment felt like a trap, and the walls were closing in on me.
Near morning, I was so tired that I fell onto the couch. I slept a little bit, but I had bad dreams. I dreamed of beaches I had never seen and Christmas trees I had never decorated. When I woke up, the first thing I did was check the photo again.
It was still there. It was still me. It still said tomorrow.
The smart part of my brain tried to find an answer. Maybe the date was a mistake? Maybe the person who wrote it made a slip? Maybe it wasn't me at all, but just a trick? But I knew the truth.
I knew because of the shirt I was wearing in the photo. It was a gray t-shirt with a small hole near the neck. It had been sitting on my bedroom floor for weeks. I hadn't worn it in a long time-until last night.
The thought made my skin crawl. Whoever was taking these photos wasn't just watching me. They were predicting what I would do. Or maybe they were controlling me. The idea made me feel sick.
By noon, I was filled with fear. I needed answers. The only person I could talk to was my ex-boyfriend. He was the one who acted like he didn't know anything, but his voice had sounded scared when I mentioned the beach. I looked at his name in my phone. My gut told me not to call. He usually just lied to me anyway. But he was my only lead.
I called him. It rang and then went to voicemail. I hung up and called again. This time, he picked up. His voice was sharp and angry. "I told you not to call me," he said.
"You lied," I told him. My throat was tight. "You lied about Myrtle Beach and the photos."
He was quiet. I could hear cars driving in the background. Then he spoke. "You don't understand what you are dealing with."
"Then tell me!" I shouted.
"I can't," he said. His voice cracked. For the first time, he didn't sound mean. He sounded afraid. "They will know if I talk."
"They?" I asked.
Click. He hung up.
I stared at my phone. My chest felt cold. He said "They." He didn't say "I." He didn't say I was crazy. He said *they*. This meant he wasn't doing this alone. Or maybe someone else was behind everything.
The day felt like a dream. I couldn't eat or work. I just walked around my apartment. I checked the locks on the doors. I closed all the blinds. I waited for a sound outside. By the afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore.
I grabbed the box and all the photos. I stuffed them into my backpack. If I stayed in this apartment, I would go crazy. I had to do something. I had to go to the only place I knew: The Seaview Inn.
Myrtle Beach was a six-hour drive. I knew it was a wild idea, but I had already decided. The photo with tomorrow's date was in my bag. It felt like it was burning me. If the photos could show me my past, maybe the hotel could show me my future.
I left as the sun was going down. The highway was a blur under my car lights. The city disappeared, and soon there were only dark forests and empty fields. The farther I drove, the more scared I felt. I felt like I was walking into a trap.
After midnight, I was too tired to drive. I stopped at a small motel. It was an old place with a flickering neon sign. The room smelled like bleach. I locked the door and pushed a chair under the handle. Then I fell onto the bed.
I fell asleep fast, but my dreams were scary. I dreamed of mirrors. I saw dozens of versions of myself standing in rows. Each one was a little bit different. One had a smile that was too wide. One had eyes that looked dead. They all whispered together. I couldn't hear the words until one version of me pressed against the glass and said: We are not done.
I woke up gasping for air. I was covered in sweat. On the small table next to the bed, propped up against the lamp, was another Polaroid.
My blood turned to ice.
The photo showed me in this exact room. I was tangled in the sheets, sleeping. I turned the photo over. The date on the back said: Yesterday.
I stared at it until my eyes blurred. I wanted to scream, but I was too afraid. Who had been in my room? How did they get in without me hearing?
I searched the whole room. I looked under the bed. I checked the closet. I pulled back the shower curtain. There was no one there. There was only the smell of the room and the sound of the air conditioner.
But the photo was real. The "me" in the photo was real. And the date-Yesterday-made no sense.
The photo in my apartment showed the future. This photo showed the past. But it was a past that shouldn't exist. I wasn't in this motel yesterday. I was in my apartment. It was like someone was changing time around me using these photos.
I put the photo in my bag. I sat on the floor with my back against the wall. I held my knees to my chest and waited for the sun to come up. My mind was spinning with scary thoughts.
When the morning light came through the curtains, I was ready to leave. I didn't eat breakfast. I didn't stop for gas until I absolutely had to. I just kept driving south toward the Seaview Inn. I wanted answers.
But one question stayed in my mind the whole way: If someone can take a photo of my tomorrow and my yesterday... what is happening to me today.
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