This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DreadfulFilm on 2024-12-27 06:10:17+00:00.
When I was a kid, I saw my father’s suicide.
I know-heavy way to start this but I don’t have a lot of time and I cannot dance around the facts. It happened right in front of me. One minute, he was holding a gun, staring at me with this empty look in his eyes. The next, he was gone.
I can still hear the sound. Smell the gunpowder. See the way the room changed, especially the wallpaper behind where he sat. That moment is burned into my memory—the kind of thing you can’t unsee, no matter how much therapy you pay for.
Speaking of my therapist, she said I’d carry that trauma forever. She was right. But she also said it would get better with time. Well, the thing is, no one ever tells you it could actually get worse with time.
So far, it has.
Why am I writing this now? Well, there have been some terryfying things happening to me these past few days. But let’s back up a bit first so you have the entire context for the story.
About a year ago, my mom passed away. We hadn’t spoken in years. After my cancer diagnosis when I was younger, I’d gone into remission, moved out, and cut ties with her completely. She often used my cancer to make people feel sorry for her. She was a horrible mother. There was just too much baggage there, too much pain in that house.
Then, out of nowhere, I got a letter from a lawyer telling me she’d left me the deed to her house.
The house where I grew up. The house where my dad died. Where my mum would often swap my cancer drugs for sugar pills, keeping me sick.
I didn’t want to go back, but I didn’t have a choice. Since that letter a year ago, I’d lost my job, burned through my savings on various medical treatments, and couldn’t pay my rent anymore. I actually got an eviction notice, like you would see in a movie. Selling the house was the only way to get back on my feet.
When I pulled into the driveway, it was like stepping into a time capsule. The sagging roof, peeling paint, and overgrown lawn—it all looked just like I remembered. Inside, the air was stale and heavy, a mix of mould and mothballs, but every now and then, I caught a faint whiff of lavender. My mom’s old perfume. It made me sick. I immediately opened every window possible.
I spent the first night unpacking and clearing some of the clutter she had hoarded over the years. I guess she had gotten deep into weird cult ideology books. They were everywhere.
When people are on their deathbeds as she was, it’s common for them to cling to, or ‘find’ religion, a God or even cults that promise to be free. Well, that is what my therapist once told me when I too danced around the idea for a bit.
Either way, I went to bed early, I was completely exhausted from the drive. But the next morning, everything changed.
When I walked into the kitchen, there was a Polaroid sitting on the counter.
It was a picture of me.
Taken from outside the kitchen window.
I was standing there, holding a coffee mug, staring at my phone. But I hadn’t been in the kitchen yet that morning. And in the photo, I was wearing yesterday’s clothes.
Someone had taken that picture of me the day before.
I told myself it had to be some kids messing with me. Maybe someone from the neighbourhood who didn’t want the house sold—they’d made it clear to the lawyer they didn’t want developers tearing it down.
I stayed another night. I had to get this place ready to sell no matter how many people tried to scare me off.
By that evening, my nerves were shot, but I decided to distract myself by tackling the mess in the attic. That’s when I found it.
The camera.
It was an old Polaroid Land Camera, the same one that my dad used to carry everywhere. He loved that thing, and he was always snapping photos—me, my mom, the house, random things he thought were interesting, like his gun collection. Next to it was a dusty box filled with old pictures.
Most of them were harmless. Me as a kid, my mom waving at the camera-the cliche vintage Disneyland pictures. But near the bottom of the pile, the photos started to change.
One of my dad holding the gun. Another of him pointing it at the camera.
And one of the aftermath—the couch, the wall behind him, stained dark.
Finally, there was one of me. A little boy, sitting on the floor, staring at Dad’s lifeless body.
I dropped the photos. My hands were shaking. I didn’t even know those pictures existed. I was the only one home when it happened. I dialled 911 for Christ’s sake. Who the hell had taken them?
I picked up the box and went downstairs to throw them in the bins outside, no one needed to see these ever again. That’s when I saw the fridge.
It was now covered in Polaroids.
Dozens of them taped haphazardly across the surface.
Each one was of me from the past 2 days. Brushing my teeth, alone. Eating dinner, alone. Sleeping in my bed, alone-or so I thought.
One was from that night. It showed me in the attic, looking through the box of photos.
Someone had been in the house, maybe even was still in the house at that moment. Watching me. Waiting. For what? I still don’t exactly know.
I lost it. I ripped the pictures off the fridge, smashed the camera against the counter, and packed my bags. I wasn’t staying there another second.
I checked into a cheap motel in town that night. Locked the door, shoved a chair under the handle, and turned on every light in the room. For the first time in days, I felt a little safer.
Until the banging started.
It was just after midnight. Heavy, deliberate bangs on the motel door jolted me awake.
I unplugged and grabbed a lamp from the bedside and crept to the peephole.
No one was there.
I moved the chair, and when I opened the door, I found another Polaroid lying face down on the floor.
I flipped it over and froze.
It was me, in the motel shower, not four hours earlier.
I stumbled back, my heart was pounding. My vision was completely blurred, and I felt a wave of nausea hit me. I turned and there it was, sitting on top of my bag, the camera.
Before I could think, my knees buckled. All I remember was hitting my head on the corner of the bedframe before it was lights out.
When I came to, I wasn’t in the motel anymore.
I was back in the house. Sitting on my father’s old chair.
I don’t know how I got here. My bag is gone. My clothes are different. Everything feels… wrong. I’m scared. I dont know where my medication is and I feel sick to my stomach. Probably from the head knock.
I tried the doors and windows, but none of them would open like they had been glued shut.
I’m trapped.
Now I’m sitting at the kitchen table, typing this on my laptop. It’s the only thing I can think to do. Maybe someone out there will read this.
Maybe you will figure out what’s happening. Maybe you have had the same experience and know how to get out.
But, as I write this, I can feel it. The hair on my neck is standing up. There’s a coldness behind me, a pressure like someone is watching. I know someone is.
I just heard it again.
CLICK.
The unmistakable sound of that Polaroid camera.
I can’t turn around. I won’t. Not just yet. My hands are trembling, but I just keep typing, as if finishing this will make it stop. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe it’s the fear. Maybe it’s all of it eating away at me.
And just now, a Polaroid has floated down from somewhere above me, it has landed right in front of my keyboard.
I am scared.
It’s a picture of me. Sitting in my father’s chair. There’s a gun in my slumped hand, the same one he used. And behind me, the wall is painted red.
Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to run, but I can’t move. My legs feel bolted to the floor. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out every sound except the next one.
CLICK.
The camera just went off again, and I heard the Polaroid fall out and hit the floor beside me.
Don’t look down idiot. But how can I not?
I did-It is of me sitting here, right now.
If you’re reading this, it means it’s too late.
Please, don’t come here.
Don’t try to help.
Don’t even think about this place.
And whatever you do— don’t turn around.
CLICK-CLICK.