1000 Words

A guy gets more than he bargained for when he buys a Polaroid camera from a garage sale.

The sun was high, and the temperature was sweltering. Illinois’ summers were always too humid to bear. Sweat rolled down the side of Tom’s face as his old Ford Escort rolled to a stop in front of his next house.

One of Tom’s favorite things to do during the summer was visit the local garage sales. It was an activity he and his grandmother had since he was a kid until the day she died.

This was his fifth house he’d been to today. A mound of useless garbage had started to pile up in the back seat. Among the haul: an old sewing machine, four yo-yos, a toaster oven, several movies on vhs, an old copy of Mr. Poppers Penguins, and thirteen different shoes.

He walked up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath his feet. The yard was spotted with grass, both dead and crab. Inside the garage, the air reeked of dust and old shoes. Several tables were positioned in a semi-circle, each piled with random junk from the family’s house.

Tom wiped the sweat from his brow, walked to the nearest table, and started rummaging through the odds and ends.

Several minutes later, Tom had gathered up a small stack of baseball cards, a box of worn down crayons, and an under inflated basketball under his arm.

Tom was on his last table of junk when he found an old Polaroid camera. He reached for the camera with a smile, but his hand collided with some one else’s.

“Oh, gosh,” he said looking up, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the stranger replied.

Tom looked her up and down, and was shocked with what he saw. A young girl stood in front of him. She looked to be about his age, with long dark hair that stretched down to her shoulders. Her shirt was skin tight, and it was pulled up just below her breasts and tied off. Her skirt was just long enough to leave plenty to the imagination, but also make it go wild at the same time. She was the kind of girl Tom never thought he’d meet at a garage sale.

“You can take it, I guess,” the girl said.

“I’m sorry,” Tom asked, confused.

“The camera,” she repeated, “you can have it.”

“Oh,” Tom said taking the camera.

The girl turned to walk away, but Tom stopped her.

“Hey,” Tom called after her, “I’m Tom.”

“Julia,” She said in reply.

“Are you sure about the camera?” Tom asked, holding the camera up. “I really don’t care.”

“No, it’s okay,” Julia replied with a smile, and she turned to walk away again. 

“Well, maybe I could make it up to you with some dinner sometime?”

Julia smiled and grabbed the camera out of Tom’s hand. She held it up in the air towards herself and snapped a picture. She pulled out the picture, grabbed a marker from the table next to her, and wrote her name and number on the picture. She walked away without saying another word.

 

That was ten days ago. Unfortunately for Tom, the number she’d given him didn’t work. He’d tried it several times, several different ways. Nothing but the wrong number message. It was upsetting, but it wasn’t the first time some one had given him a fake number.

He sat alone in his messy apartment, toiling away on his computer. A large bowl of macaroni-and-cheese sat next to him with a large spoon jammed carelessly in the middle. Every minute or two he’d stop typing and take a big bite or two of the monstrous bowl of mac-and-cheese.

His great pile of garage sale crap sat messed on the bed. It had been ten days since he went out and gotten the miscellaneous items, and still they sat on his bed, but pushed to one side so he had room to sleep. 

Outside the wind raged on, driving people on the streets into their homes and people in their homes deeper under their blankets for warmth. Tom’s stereo was turned up to half the dial, blaring out hard, mindless, rock music.

The phone rang.

It rang again, muted by the music.

It rang a third time, catching Tom’s attention.

He picked it up and looked at the caller I.D. If he hadn’t been pouring over it the last ten days, he never would have recognized Julia’s number. Excitedly he answered.

“Hello,” Tom said jovially.

There was no answer on the other line.

“Hello,” Tom said again, confused.

There was another long pause, and just as Tom was about to speak again, a voice spoke up.

“A picture’s worth a thousand words,” a voice said.

It oozed with androgyny. So much so, Tom almost thought he could hear two voices. A man and a woman.

 “Who is this?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Whoever it was, man or woman, they hung up.

Tom set the phone down slowly, as if going too fast would cause him and his brain physical harm. He went back to the computer and started typing again nervously. He turned the stereo off, ready for another call. Unfortunately, a call isn’t what he got.

The Polaroid camera he’d bought at the garage sale rolled off the pile of junk and landed on the floor. Without explanation, the camera began spitting out picture after picture onto the floor at the foot of Tom’s bed. He got up nervously and walked to the foot of the bed.

Tom picked up one of the pictures from off the floor. To his surprise, it wasn’t a picture of the floor like he thought it would be. Tom was holding the picture of the girl from the garage sale. The exact picture she’d taken before leaving him in her wake. He picked up another picture. And another. And another. Her name and number were on every one.

Tom rushed to the phone. He thumbed to the top of his recent call list and called the number that just called it. As usual, the wrong number message sounded on the other end of the phone.

He scrambled back to the foot of the bed and scooped the pictures up into his arms. He ran into the kitchen, and dumped them into the garbage. When he got back into his room, another pile of pictures were scattered on the floor. This time the camera was working at double speed.

Tom kicked the pictures and the camera under the bed. The phone rang again and Tom turned on his heels in surprise. He crossed the room in a few great strides and picked up the phone. The caller I.D. read another familiar number. He let out a sigh of relief and answered the phone.

“Mom?” Tom said into the receiver hopefully.

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” the same androgynous voice said, and hung up.

“What the f**k?” Tom cried, throwing the phone against the wall. It shattered and the pieces scattered across the room.

Under the bed, the camera continued to spit out pictures.

“Alright,” Tom said to himself aloud, “I’ve just got to get a hold of myself. I’ve just been awake too long. I just need to go to sleep.”

He threw back the covers of his bed, and crawled in without changing his clothes. He pulled the blankets over his head and curled up into a ball. He muttered to himself, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t going crazy.

He lay in bed for several minutes, trying to coax himself to sleep. It was no use. The sound of the camera spewing the same picture over and over was digging its way into his head.

“Son of a b***h!” Tom screamed, throwing the blankets onto the floor. “What the f**k is going…”

Tom stopped short when he realized his breath came out in a billowy puff as he spoke. The room temperature had dropped drastically. Tom could feel the chill creep up his spine. He rubbed his arms, trying to keep warm.

He moved to the edge of the bed and put his feet on the floor. He pulled them back as soon as the touched the floor. It was a step away from being an ice rink. Tom thought of his coat, and now his shoes, sitting by the door. He took a few deep breaths, and tried to get across the floor to the door. After one step he let out a cry of pain as a layer of skin peeled from his feet. He fell onto his elbows and knees. When he tried to move, more skin tore from his body.

When he made it to the hallway, he tried to stand. A bolt of pain shot up his body when his feet touched the ground. He almost toppled again, but held himself up, knowing it would hurt more to crawl. He hobbled himself down the hall to the door. He grabbed the coat, and pulled on his shoes.

“What is going on?” Tom panted. “I just won’t go in there. That solves that problem.”

As if on cue, a cold fog crept out of the room, freezing the walls and floors as it crept toward Tom.

“S**t,” he swore, and got to his feet. He could feel the will to fight slowly drain from his body. Effects of the cold, he supposed. He made his way back to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. Surprisingly enough, it was warmer than the rest of the house.

Tom could feel himself slipping into a cold induced sleep when he was woken up by a sudden ring of the phone. He jerked his head off the pillow. The phone laid shattered by the bed, the ring still clear as when it was in one piece. Tom ignored it. He didn’t know what else to do.

It was no use. The phone answered itself.

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” the voice said, and the pictures began piling up under the bed. They spewed out at an unbelievable rate. Tom pulled the covers up over his head and prayed for it to stop.

 Oddly enough it did.

A deafening silence cut through the room. Tom nervously pulled the blanket down from over his head and looked around the room. The walls were dripping with condensation. It poured through the cracks, wetting the pictures on the floor. Before Tom knew it, the walls themselves were closing in on him. They inched ever closer to the bed, crushing everything in their way. They loomed high above his head as he cowered on his bed. Tom felt a tear trickle down his cheek.

Suddenly, it all stopped. The walls jerked back to their rightful position; anything smashed in their way righted itself in their wake. Tom lay back on the bed, his head resting heavily on the pillow. He felt the unmistakable pull of sleep washing over him and he closed his eyes. Inside, he could feel his heart racing, but on the outside, he felt as calm as a cow in India.

Tom’s bed shifted as the pictures rolled out from underneath. They splayed out on the floor, no two pictures overlapping. At one side of the room, a hand popped out of the picture. The arm it was attached to stretched out after it. Before too long, a human body was rising from the floor of pictures. Not just any human body though, but Julia’s body. She pulled herself out of the final Polaroid and brushed herself off.

She walked over to Tom who lay on the bed serenely. She put her hand on his forehead and smiled gently.

“I’m scared,” Tom said, not acting like it was a shock to see her there.

“Good,” Julia said, the smile never leaving her face, “I was hoping you would be.”

She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. The scent of fear filled her nostrils making her stomach growl with hunger. She picked up his hand and slid Tom’s finger into her mouth. She bit down hard, his bones crunching in her mouth.

Tom couldn’t feel anything. He didn’t utter one peep.

Julia relished in the savory taste of human flesh and fear.

I’m sure he was a nice guy though, she thought as she sucked up the last lace of his shoe like a spaghetti noodle.