I first noticed it in a photo from Kasey’s birthday party.

There was a group photo of us, all huddled together, smiling for the camera. But between me and Jack, you could see a man sitting at a table behind us.

He was hiding his face in his hands.

“Guess that guy doesn’t like to be photographed,” Jack laughed.

“Yeah.”

“Makes sense though. Who wants strangers having a picture of you, you know? Especially with all the weird facial recognition and stuff cameras do nowadays?”

It was still weird, though. Looking at the picture sent chills down my spine. I mean, his face was turned directly towards the camera. If he really didn’t want to be photographed, couldn’t he have just tilted his head way down or put the menu in front of it?

Why the creepy “weeping angels” pose?

But some people are weird about being photographed. My brother never smiles for family photos, just to annoy my mom. One of my college friends has to have like five pounds of makeup on her face before she’s willing to be in a photo.

Maybe this guy always hid his face in his hands like that. He thought he was being funny or something.

And so I forgot about it.

A few days later, though…

I went to the grocery store after work. I passed a little girl in the bread aisle, standing next to her mom.

As I passed, I looked down to give her a little wave—

And stopped dead.

She was hiding her face in her hands.

Just like the guy in the photograph. Relax, she’s probably just crying about something, I told myself, as I hurried away.

But then why was her face turning in time with mine?

As though she were watching me, between the cracks in her fingers?

I threw my groceries on the conveyor belt. The cashier raised her eyebrow as the carton of eggs fell with a loud rattling sound.

“Um—”

“I’m in a hurry,” I breathed as I ran over to the keypad and stuck my card in.

It had started to rain. Light, pattering raindrops fell on the windshield, bleeding into little rivers that distorted the road before me. *Swish—*I turned on the wipers and they swept through.

I couldn’t stop my fingers from frenetically tapping the wheel.

You have to calm down.

Don’t let this be like last time.

I rushed into the house, the rain a downpour now. By the time I got inside, my shirt was damp, sticking to my skin.

“Jenny? You’re back earl—”

I raced up the stairs and ran into the bathroom. My hands shook as I grabbed a pill bottle out of the medicine cabinet. The pills rattled loudly inside, like a warning sign. And the letters printed across it read EXP 04/21.

But I couldn't. I just couldn't.

"Jenny?" Jack called through the door. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just... have a bad headache."

I spent the rest of the evening wrapped up in a blanket, watching some stupid Hallmark movie, as Jack listened to some podcast downstairs. And now--I don't know if it was time, or the meds--I almost laughed at the incident earlier.

I almost had a panic attack because some little girl was crying at the store?

So stupid.

God forbid someday I'll actually have real problems, real things to panic about.

I fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. The next morning I went to work as usual. That was a good sign--last time I'd had a panic attack, I'd had to call in sick.

I took the elevator up to the fifth floor, humming to myself. Sat down in my office and worked on emails for an hour over coffee.

And then it happened.

Taking a little break, I walked over to the window. I looked down at all the people, hurrying along on the sidewalks down below--

But one was standing still.

A woman. In a black dress. Looking straight up at me.

But of course, she wasn't actually looking. Because her hands were hiding her face. In that same, creepy, peekaboo pose that the other two had.

The blood drained out of my face.

What. The. Fuck.

I backed away from the window. Kept backing away until my leg collided with my desk. I yelped as I fell backwards, grabbing the edge of the desk just at the last second.

Breathing hard, I collapsed into the chair.

I left work early, claiming I felt sick, and got into bed for the rest of the day. I kept telling myself that I shouldn’t freak out, and there were perfectly good reasons for what I’d seen.

Coincidence.

Flash mob.

Weird conspiracy plot by my ex-boyfriend to scare me.

The doorbell ringing snapped me out of my thoughts. Jack was still at work so I went downstairs. My hand fell on the doorknob, and I was about to open it… but something in me made me pause. A sort of itchy, tingly feeling, like I was being watched.

I lifted my face and brought my eye to the peephole.

No.

There on the front porch stood our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Rose. Except—her face was hidden in her hands. Just like all the other people I’d seen. That creepy, peekaboo pose, wrinkled spotted hands covering her face.

I drew the deadbolt and ran upstairs.

I’ve been sitting up here for an hour now, waiting for Jack to come home. But part of me is terrified. What if, when he comes inside… he’s hiding his face too?

What then?

Part 2

Part 3 Final