Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 01 | It was watching

"Sometimes, it's the quietest places that hold the loudest secrets, and the most beautiful homes that shelter the darkest shadows."

-

Act I

1940

JAMES SAT IN THE backseat of the car, his face pressed against the cold window as the small, nameless road stretched out before them. Elmwood Heights. The name alone carried a strange weight, as if it was a place hidden between the folds of reality, where time forgot to touch, but something else lingered just beneath the surface. The town was still a few miles ahead, but already the world seemed to shift. The trees lining the roadside grew taller, their dark branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the gray sky, blotting out the weak afternoon sun.

His mother, her hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, hummed softly to herself. She was nervous, though she wouldn't say it. Not after everything they'd been through. Not after what they left behind. James turned away from the window, studying her face. There was a new line etched into her brow, a crease that hadn't been there before. It bothered him, that permanent trace of tension. But he didn't ask. Not now. Not yet.

The town rose ahead of them, creeping into view like some forgotten relic. Elmwood Heights was picturesque, sure—if you liked the kind of pretty that hid something ugly just beneath the surface. Neatly kept houses sat side by side, their wooden frames pristine, yards manicured with painful precision. But there was something off. It wasn't just the quiet, or the fact that the town seemed frozen in time. No, it was the way it all felt staged, like a photograph posed too perfectly to be real.

When they pulled up to the house, James felt a sinking in his chest. The house was old, its white paint peeling at the corners, as if it had been left untouched for years. But it wasn't the house itself that bothered him. It was the way it stood there, at the end of the street, apart from the others, as though it was watching. Waiting.

His mother killed the engine and exhaled, the sound sharp in the stillness. "This is it, Jamie," she said softly, turning to him with a hopeful smile. "A fresh start."

Fresh. The word felt wrong on his tongue, tasted sour. He didn't believe it. Not really. But he nodded, because that's what she needed him to do. They had to believe this was the beginning of something better. They had no choice.

Outside, the air was thick with silence. James stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes, the sound too loud in the suffocating quiet. His mother was already opening the trunk, pulling out boxes as though their entire lives could be packed and unpacked so easily. He grabbed a box, lighter than it should've been. Everything felt lighter now, as if there was nothing left worth holding onto.

As they started unloading, James noticed the neighbors—or rather, how they didn't seem to notice them at all. People walked by, their faces turned away as if deliberately avoiding eye contact. Across the street, a man in a brown coat stood on his porch, staring. His expression was unreadable, not quite hostile but far from welcoming. James managed a tentative smile, more out of instinct than anything else, but the man didn't return it. Instead, he turned his back and disappeared inside his house without a word.

"Friendly place," James muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a bitterness he couldn't hide.

His mother glanced over at him, her eyes tired but still holding onto that fragile optimism. "Give it time, Jamie. People just need to get used to us, that's all. Small towns can be like this at first."

He didn't answer. There was no point. Small towns didn't just "get used to you." They either swallowed you whole or spat you out, and Elmwood Heights felt like the kind of place that wouldn't hesitate to chew you up first.

The house loomed behind them, its windows dark, watching. James could feel it, the weight of its gaze pressing against his back as they carried box after box through the front door. Inside, the air was stale, as though the house hadn't breathed in years. The floorboards creaked underfoot, their groans echoing in the empty halls. His mother immediately set to work unpacking, her movements quick, almost frantic, as if keeping busy would keep the unease at bay.

James wandered from room to room, taking in the space that was supposed to be his new home. The walls were bare, yellowed with age, and the furniture, what little there was, seemed too old, too fragile, like it might crumble if you touched it the wrong way. It didn't feel right. Nothing about this place felt right.

He stopped in front of a large window overlooking the street. From here, he could see the whole neighborhood—the identical houses, the empty sidewalks, the stillness that clung to everything like a shadow. And yet, behind that stillness, there was movement. Subtle, just at the edge of his vision. He saw a curtain twitch in the house across the street, a shadow shifting behind it before disappearing altogether. Someone was watching.

A chill ran down his spine. James stepped back from the window, suddenly feeling exposed, as though the entire town had been waiting for them, watching their every move.

His mother called from the kitchen, breaking the silence. "Jamie, can you grab the last box from the car?"

He tore his gaze from the window, shaking off the unease that clung to him like a second skin. "Yeah, sure."

Outside, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows that stretched across the street, turning the world a deeper shade of gray. The wind had picked up, cold and biting, whispering through the trees like a warning. As he reached into the trunk for the last box, he heard footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. He glanced up just in time to see a figure—one of the neighbors, a woman in a pale dress—walking by. She didn't look at him. Not directly. But there was something in the way her head tilted, the way her eyes shifted just slightly in his direction as she passed.

James felt his throat tighten. He tried smiling again, the way you're supposed to when you meet someone new, but the gesture felt wrong, forced. The woman didn't return it. She just kept walking, her figure dissolving into the growing shadows.

The box in his hands felt heavier now. He carried it inside, the door creaking as it shut behind him, the sound far too final. His mother was still in the kitchen, unpacking with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Do you think we'll be okay here?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

She paused, looking up at him with that familiar soft gaze, the one that always said she was trying too hard to make everything right. "Of course we will, Jamie. Everything's going to be fine." Her voice was gentle, but he could hear the uncertainty beneath it, a tremor of doubt that betrayed her words.

James wanted to believe her. He really did. But something about Elmwood Heights felt wrong in a way he couldn't explain. It was like the town had eyes, and those eyes were on him now. Watching. Waiting.

"Yeah," he mumbled, more to himself than to her. "I hope so."

As the last of the daylight faded, the house settled around them, creaking softly in the quiet. James stood in the doorway of his room, staring at the empty walls. The air felt thick, heavy, like it was pressing in from all sides. The house was old, sure, but it wasn't just that. It was the way the darkness seemed to settle too easily, like it belonged here, like it had been waiting for them.

He glanced toward the window, the one that overlooked the street, and felt a cold knot twist in his stomach. There was something about this place. Something that whispered in the quiet and lurked in the shadows. He didn't know what it was, not yet. But he could feel it.

And it was watching.