“I like it.” She says to the realtor. She is looking for a house to buy with her husband, who is upstairs. She is in the basement.. “What’s this?” She bends down and picks up a picture.

“That’s odd…”

It’s of an apple tree. There is a blue, sunny, sky. She turns around to show the realtor, but he’s gone.

“Hello?” She calls. Nothing. She looks at the picture again. Gasping, she lets it fall to the floor.  The realtor is now lying on the grass, a knife sticking out of his chest. There is blood surrounding him. She runs upstairs to her husband. He comes out of the kitchen.

“What’s the matter?” He asks.

“The realtor is-dead.” She covers her face with her hands. When she lifts her hands, he is gone. She screams. “Anthony?” She yells. Nothing. She leans on the kitchen counter and breathes, then screams when she sees the Polaroid is now on the counter next to her hand. And next to the realtor, is her husband, with a knife sticking out of his chest. She falls to the floor, gasping for breath. She looks at the Polaroid. The words, ‘watch out’ have appeared on the bottom.

Then everything goes black.

The next day, a family with three kids and a realtor go to look at the old house. The youngest child, a five year old girl wearing her hair in two pigtails with bows, finds the picture on the floor. She sees an ice cream cake and a balloon bouquet.

“Mommy, Mommy, look!” She thinks it’s pretty. She wants to keep it. The mother comes closer to look at the picture. She screams.

“What is that?” The little girl looks at the picture once more. Her baby brother, Connor, is sitting in front of the ice cream cake with a knife in his chest, the blood creating a frosting on the cake. The girl cries out, and reaches out to hug her mother, but she’s gone. And slowly, one by one, her family members slide into the Polaroid picture, dead.

The words ‘watch out’ scribble onto the picture. And before she can scream, her world goes black. No one is there to see it, but a little girl wearing her hair in two pigtails with bows joins the group in the picture with a knife in her chest, her blood adding to the frosting. The picture lands on the counter, and slowly fades away to be replaced by a new picture with no one in it–yet.

In another place, far, far away, a man smiles as he picks up the Polaroid. To add to my collection, he thinks. He then takes a thumb tack and jabs it into a balloon in picture. Perfect. He steps back to reflect on his work. Next to the Polaroid he just added, with a family sitting at a table with balloons and an ice cream cake, there is a pretty apple tree and a sunny, blue sky with a husband, wife, and realtor dead on the grass. He grins.

“Now…. Who’s next?

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