The Photographer
He was there.
In every photo I took. Again.
Why? I don't know.
In photos he didn't belong. Among the wedding guests. In the rice field. Next to the old couple I clicked a photo for. Even next to the newborn I did a photoshoot for.
No one else could see him. Thankfully. Otherwise, I might have had to shut this shop down.
This shop was my place of refuge.
I cleaned the camera while whistling even as the man stood in the corner of the studio again. The studio room was not that old. After all, when I had arrived here a year ago, the studio had just finished being made.
One side of the huge-heavy camera was somewhat bent from the force of the collision. The paint had chipped too. No one commented on it, assuming I must have dropped it accidentally.
I looked at the man standing in the corner before rolling my eyes. Customers called me by his name each time. I had never corrected them because what would have even been the point of so many efforts I put in, otherwise? Doesn't mean it didn't annoy the fuck out of me. He glanced at his camera with longing. His camera. And I felt anger creep up my back. How long were people you murdered supposed to follow you after they died, anyway?
-Oohlala Oyaoya
(An original horror microfiction by me)