+12673889764 Shared an Image

By HJ Dutton

He received the first photo as he sat at the bar. Unlocking his phone, he swiped away the news alerts about Gaza and opened Messages. A view of a creek, across it a wall of scrub and pines. Nowhere near Philly. He scratched his stubble, shrugged, and made to stow the phone away before it buzzed again. +12673889764 Shared an Image. A second photo, this one taken on a worn road. A highway by the looks of it. He squinted at the number. Not one he recognised. Probably some drunk got the wrong contact. Snorting, he blocked the number and turned the phone face-down.

An hour later came the third text. He was on his way home then, waves of night wind pursuing him down streets others avoided after dark. He grunted as he fished through his pocket for the phone. Probably Mom texting to remind him not to walk home after dark. That, or Dad sending another link to apartments in Conshohocken. Scowling, he reopened Messages. No texts from Mom or Dad. For a minute he stared at the notification: +12125382467 shared 4 images. He worked his mouth. No way it could be the same guy, right? 

But it was. When he opened Messages, the photo of another road greeted him. Past the guardrail sprawled a valley, choked with conifers and a scattering of streetlights. Somewhere up North, maybe. Behind the first photo was the one he’d received earlier tonight. He stared at it, eyes narrowed. Then he messaged Wrong #, blocked them again, and stuffed the phone away. 

He left his apartment door unlocked as usual. For the next couple hours he clicked through channels, always cycling back to the Phillies game. A buzzing snapped him out of his trance. As he fished for his phone, the Phillies’ losing battle cut to a headline. Something, something, drive-by. He unlocked his phone, grumbling, and squinted at the screen. +13875449136 shared five images. “You gotta be kidding me.” Jaw set, he opened Messages, catching a glimpse of the latest photo. A residential area he didn’t recognise. He shrugged. What was this guy’s deal? WRONG # he texted, and, yet again, blocked them. 

A half hour passed before the next one. He tried to focus on the game; the texts kept nagging at him. Why use multiple numbers just to send a stranger random photos? Why go through that trouble at all? This time, when his phone buzzed, he already had Messages open. Behind the new photo sat all the ones they’d previously sent. He downloaded them all. In his gallery, he swiped up on each photo, checking their data.

Alaska.

British Columbia.

Saskatchewan.

Montana.

Iowa.

Indiana.

As a mental map materialised, he frowned. 

Were they headed toward him?

He forced a titter. Just a prank, that was all. A colleague screwing with him. He waited for the Gotcha! text so he could laugh. No such text came. Only another photo, this one taken in Ohio. 

He stood, began to pace. They swiped those off the internet. Must have. How long would it take to travel here from Alaska? Three days? More? If they’d taken each of these, that meant they’d cleared the distance in hours.

His phone buzzed. He jumped, cursed, checked Messages. Another highway photo. When he swiped down, his breath caught. Harrisburg. Closest one yet. 

Out the window he stared. Parked cars choked the streets. Dark shapes in their windshields, like figures, staring back. Another buzz vibrated his fingers. Swallowing, he opened Messages. He stared at the blurry photo of Philly’s skyline. They were here. Down the hall he ran and, for the first time in months, locked his door. 

From the kitchen he fetched a knife. His parents had told him, countless times now, to buy himself a gun. At the end of the hall he stood. His knuckles bleached as he gripped the knife. He stared at the door, waiting for its handle to dip down, to rattle. When it didn’t, he retreated to his bedroom. He locked that door, too. The rest of the night he sat on his bed, knife in hand, waiting hours for the next photo. 

He’d tossed his old phone into the dumpster outside his old apartment complex. For good measure he’d changed his number, deleted his socials, and told none of his old neighbours where he was going. Since that night, he’d received no new photos. Either whoever it was had grown bored with their game, or he’d managed to disappear.  

Back into the new complex he strolled. As he slipped into an elevator, he glanced, one last time, back the way he’d come. Nobody there — not that there would be. As the floor vibrated under his shoes, he closed his eyes, and breathed out through his nose. Back to normal. No more checking his phone every minute. More importantly, no more looking over his shoulder, ever again. 

His phone buzzed.

About the Author

HJ Dutton is a Pennsylvania-based writer and Assistant Editor at Horrific Scribes.

His work has been featured on Creepy-A Horror Podcast.

Alongside L. Andrew Cooper, he co-edited the anthology Horrific Scribes Presents: Invasions of World, Home, Body, and Mind as well as the upcoming collection Horrific Scribes Presents: Rulemakers and Rulebreakers.

More of his fiction is forthcoming in Audience Askew, Schlock Webzine, Quotidian Bagatelle, and Cryptic Frog Quarterly.