I found an old photo album in my grandmother’s attic last night. Dust covered the leather cover, and the pages smelled of time long gone. As I flipped through, one picture caught my eye—a black-and-white photo of a family standing in front of a house. But something was... off.

There was a man standing in the back, staring directly at the camera. He wasn’t smiling, unlike the others. His face was blank, his eyes hollow. I didn’t recognize him, and my grandmother had never mentioned him before.

When I looked closer, a chill ran down my spine. The man looked eerily similar to me—same jawline, same sharp nose. Shaking it off as a coincidence, I shut the album and went to bed.

Around 3 a.m., I woke up to the sound of whispers. My heart pounded as I realized it was coming from the attic. Slowly, I climbed the creaking stairs, flashlight trembling in my hand. The photo album was on the floor, open to that same picture.

But the man wasn’t in the back anymore.

He was gone.

As I turned to run, I felt a cold hand grip my shoulder. A voice whispered, "You shouldn't have looked."

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