 I've always loved photography. There's something about capturing moments that just sparked such a joy in me. I got a digital camera for my birthday one year. And after that, as it grew to more than just a hobby. And as I got better, I bought more expensive cameras. I've wanted a Polaroid camera for a long time. They were popular when my mom was younger and has made a comeback in recent years. But for a while, the only way to get one was buying secondhand at ridiculous prices. So you can imagine my delight when one evening while visiting my parents' house, I found one imiatic. I'd gone up to look for some books I'd had as a child, but instead found it in an unlabeled box next to my old stuff. I went to ask my mom about it. She was standing in the kitchen washing dishes after a delicious dinner. I asked her about the camera, but she had no idea where it came from. It hadn't been hers. Her best guess was that it might have been one of my grandparents, though she couldn't recall having ever seen it. Maybe it's her dad's. She suggested. My father was gone for work, so I was unable to ask him. No one's using it, so I don't see a problem if you want it. She said. I was giddy with excitement, an actual vintage Polaroid camera, and I wouldn't have to spend hundreds of dollars on it. Although I suppose it doesn't have any film and finding more might be difficult, she said, breaking me out of my thoughts. I grinned at her, only one way to find out. I held up the camera. My parents' dog Sherlock waddled into the kitchen and my mother called her. She made Sherlock sit next to her and smiled at the camera and I snapped a picture. Something warred in it. For a moment, nothing happened. I was about to speak when a sheet of paper slowly made its way out of the slit in the camera. I took it out and shook it. Not sure why, but they did it in the movie, so it couldn't hurt, right? Slowly, the picture became clearer. There was my mom, Sherlock looking lovingly up at my mom, the kitchen, sink, cupboards, and the living room closed door behind her. I didn't know what, but something about it felt a little off. I concluded with it being that the camera was so old and thus the pictures would look and feel different from modern cameras. I showed it to her. Now you hang that on the fridge when you come home, so maybe it won't take so long to visit us again. She told me, patting Sherlock on the head. The next day I went outside to take some pictures around the town. I discovered an abandoned house, which I thought could be a cool location for some pictures. I brought all my camera gear, lenses and lighting, and drove to the house. The house was almost fallen apart. From what I could find, it hadn't been used since the war, and though I knew nothing about houses, I guess it was even older than that. I checked the door, but it was locked. Figures, though it would have been cool to get some photos from the inside and out into the woods. Oh well. I spent a couple hours doing so, loading everything back into the car when I saw the Polaroid camera in the back seat, where I'd forgotten it the night before. I grabbed it in turn towards the house. Maybe I could come back tomorrow when the lighting was different. Get a picture of me holding the Polaroid, lining it up with the house. It would be a very stereotypical photo, but still wouldn't matter as long as I liked it. I snapped a photo with the Polaroid, hoping it wasn't too dark outside, wouldn't want to waste another picture. It whirred and spat out a photo. I glanced at it. It looked all right. I could probably work with this. I sat in the car and drove back home. When I got home, I ate dinner and then got to work on editing the photos. My cat Watson was as always at his cuddliest at the times I was working. I lifted him up and dropped him outside my office door and closed it, feeling a bit guilty. After a couple of hours, I decided to take a picture of the Polaroid picture to see how it might look if I worked with it tomorrow. I rigged up a camera, took the picture and moved the photo from the memory card. I was experimenting with trying to get the Polaroid to match up exactly with the house, which didn't work as the lens on my camera warped the house a bit. I'll try a different lens tomorrow, I thought. And then I noticed something. The door on the Polaroid was slightly open. I checked the other photo. Closed. Huh. That's strange. Maybe after I tried to open it, it opened by itself? Might not have been locked, only stuck. If that was the case, then tomorrow I could get some photos from the inside. I went to bed head spinning with the possibilities of all the cool photos I might get in the morning. The next day I went back to the old house. I parked the car where I had the previous day and unloaded my gear. I grabbed some lights, cameras and a stand and went towards the house. I grabbed the door handle. It didn't budge. Strange. I was so sure it was slightly open on the photo. The photo was in a folder in the car, but it could wait. I tried the door again. Definitely wouldn't budge. Maybe I'd seen wrong on the photo, or maybe whoever owned the house had been here and locked it, though that didn't seem very likely. I took some more pictures of the house and when I felt happy about those, I got the Polaroid from my car. The door was definitely slightly open. Ah, that means I could have gotten in before the owner locked it. Typical. I took my pictures with the Polaroid photo and frame, and I went home. Those last pictures had in my opinion turned out really well, and after an hour with color correction, they looked even better. When I got home, I carried all the gear inside and placed the Polaroid on my kitchen table. I went straight to editing, knowing that if I didn't start at one side procrastinate and end up watching Netflix with Watson the rest of the day, Watson was sitting outside my office purring. I decided not to work as long and maybe actually end up with Watson and Netflix wasn't a bad idea. I ended up editing the photos for about an hour before I called quits. Watson was laying just outside the door and was pushed across the floor as I came out, letting out a long meow as he was pushed. I went to the living room and put on a movie. The moment I sat down, Watson materialized and laid down beside me with a soft meow. Halfway through the movie, I got up to walk around for a bit. I didn't bother pausing the movie, just stood up and left. When I came back, Watson had moved over in my seat and was lying on his back along the back cushions of the couch. I felt my pockets from my phone, but realized it was on the table next to Watson. If I went to get it, he was guaranteed to move. I remembered placing the Polaroid on the table in the kitchen and tiptoed in to fetch it, praying Watson wouldn't move. He hadn't. I snapped the picture and the camera started worrying. Watson immediately spun around and on his legs at the noise. I had my photo. I grabbed it and shook it before looking at it. Yes, the perfect cat picture. Though I looked closer, Watson was lying on the couch and my bedroom door slightly opened in the background. Only problem. I glanced up. Yeah, my bedroom door was closed. Also, that wasn't even my door. It had some kind of carvings on it, symbols of some kind. For a while, all I could do was stare up and down from picture to door. It had to be some kind of prank, right? Some kind of editing. Maybe the camera wasn't old, only looked like it with some kind of weird door filter that changes the door. That doesn't even make sense, though. I went outside to the garden. Good luck changing the door if there's no door in the frame, I thought. I took a photo, grabbed it and shook it. I could feel the color draining from my face. There on the photo in the middle of my garden was a door, even more open, I now realized. There was something in the door frame, a shadowy figure, long fingers curling around the door. It was slightly blurry, as if it had been shaking at the camera while taking the picture or holding it with a long exposure. But the rest of the picture looked fine. I went back inside. I picked up the picture I'd taken of Watson. Now that I was aware of it, I could see the same figure. Though the door was even more closed in this one. What about the other pictures? I placed the Polaroid down on the living room table and almost ran into the office, throwing papers to the ground, searching for the picture of the house. I found it and looked at it. The door was smaller as I'd been standing a bit from the house, trying to get all of it in the frame, but there was no mistaking it. The same door with the same weird symbols, even more closed. If I squinted, I thought I could see the same long shadowy fingers clutching the door. I looked at the pictures I'd taken with my normal camera. The door was definitely not the same. One more picture, the first one, the one I took of my mom. I had, as she requested, hung it on my fridge. Behind my smiling mother and Sherlock was that same door, but completely closed. I studied it closer. It was closed, but the door handle seemed to be pulled down. I placed all the pictures on the table in order. Like a shortstop motion film, they showed the door opening more and more and this shadowy figure becoming clearer and clearer, closer and closer. One more picture and it'll be able to walk through the door. The thought sent a chill down my spine. What can I do? I contemplated smashing the camera, but what if that releases whatever's in there? I was staring at the photos in shock when a loud knocking startled me out of my thought. I screamed. It knocked again. Hey, you home? Someone shouted from the outside, the voice very familiar. My dad. I gathered the photos and went to open the door. Before I opened it, I stuffed the photos into a drawer in the hallway. He hugged me the moment he had a clear line. Hey, kiddo, miss me? He asked. I could hear the smile in his voice. I took a deep breath, trying to forget about the photos and act normal. No one would believe it anyways. Hey, hey, you okay? You look a bit shaken up. Yeah, yeah. I just wasn't expecting anyone. You're knocking kind of scared me. Come on in. I said, trying to seem normal. I'll put on some coffee. He ruffled my hair and walked away into the living room, making noises at Watson, trying to get his attention. I started putting on the coffee, and I took a few deep breaths. Calm down. Just calm down. Hey, Polaroid camera. I stumbled into the living room and saw him holding the camera up in front of his face. Dad, no, I said. But it was too late. I heard the click. Dad looked at me surprised. I held my breath, looking at the camera in terror. Nothing happened. Ah, too bad. Looks like it's out of photos. My dad said, I let out a breath. I didn't know I was holding and I felt weak in my knees. The realization washing over me. Thank God it was empty. Even though the camera was empty, though, I've never gotten rid of it. The thought of someone finding it, getting more film, and taking that last picture is too frightening. I put it in a box and buried it in my garden with a note explaining its terrifying nature. If I move, I'll dig it up and bury it wherever I live. I've seen horror movies. What I fear the most is that some years after my death, some stupid teenagers will dig it up, ignore the warning, get some film, and somehow doom the world or die themselves. It kept me up at night, knowing that I could potentially have somehow released this, whatever it was, into the world, and that someone might in the future. And then I'm also scared that this door really exists somewhere, that somewhere someone is able to open it and might do so. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe whoever opens it dies. Maybe this entity will search for the camera. Search for me. The uncertainty is eating away at me. How can I know if it's in the camera or if it's out there somewhere, just waiting for someone to open the door?