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The Shack

There is a shack that can be found in the woods. It is worn down, crumbling from age and decay. Sometimes a wandering hiker happens upon it, but few give it a second glance, let alone go inside. However, if you did happen to enter, you would find that the building consisted of a single room. A room so sparsely furnished, only a bare mattress and a chair took up the emptiness. That won't be what you focus on.

Your eyes will hover over those items briefly before locking onto the walls that will suddenly seem too close. The room will begin to feel suffocating, your lungs constricting painfully in your chest. Your gaze dances along the millions of photos and items and maps and drawings that crowded along the rotting wood. Jostling about and covering every inch, all four walls beg for attention.

With widened eyes and parted lips, you stumble back, recognizing items and people and places. Neighbors faces and fingers and torsos concealed by posters and phone numbers fighting with bags of hair and teeth pinned to the wall that lingered near places you could name in your sleep when all of a sudden you cant breathe.

The overwhelming smell of mildew mixed with your reeling thoughts suddenly seem meaningless. You freeze, heart racing, palms sweaty, a chill traveling along you spine and raising bumps along your arm making your hair stand on end.

Because there in front of you

Is Your Face.

You feel unsafe like someone is watching you this very moment. You might scream. Or maybe you'll run as far away as possible. Both are good options.

Whatever you choose to do, do not take anything. Not even one picture. Don't take anything, don't touch anything, and don't think about taking a quick picture on your phone to use as evidence.

If you do, you will regret it. The photographer will begin stalking you. Every morning, you'll find new, disturbing images and drawings of yourself. Little gift boxes wrapped in bright paper filled with clippings of your hair. Small personal items that had come up missing but returned mangled in the mouth of dead animals. Then one day The Photographer will find you in your waking moments.

The police will find an unmarked package on their desk a week later. Inside will be polaroids of you, covered in blood and lacerations and put into grotesque poses. They won't do anything about it, though.

Because they know that those who go after The Photographer becomes his next 'muse'. No, they won't investigate it. They will tuck that package away in an unmarked box and shove it into a dark corner of their evidence room. They will write in big red letters 'PHOTOGRAPHER: SOLVED' and they will forget.

So run or scream. Do whatever you need to do.

Most importantly, forget you ever saw The Photographers Shack. Let the memory fade into a distant nightmare and return to your normal everyday life.

Don't worry.

At least now you know someone is always watching out for you.